

t^J 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

Cliap. ±^J Copyright Xo. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



SELECTIONS FROM THE WRITINGS 



OF 



R. ANNIE IMEL NICKELL 



AND 



FAITH ELIZABETH NICKELL 
A MEMORIAL. 



907 



^75 



Ibrary ot Con« 

DEC 19 »9<» 

S£COHOCO«^ 
OdMndto 

ORDER OIViSWH 

DEC 22 1900 



I Ho 



•COPYRIGHTED OCT. 1900, 

BY 

ANNIE IMEL NICKELL. 



All Rights Reserved. 



..(UrUings of Hnitie Tmel nickell. 



.^in vf/ \t/ \t/ \t/ \V >i;^. 
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CONTENDS. 



PAGE. 

Introduction, 8 

Memoir, . / 11 

May, 54 

To A Butterfly, . . . . ... . . .55 

The 01(1 Haw Tree, 57 

Clouds, 59 

A Winter Scene, (>0 

A Letter, Gl 

A Letter to E — , «!^> 

Tls Sad to Part, . . . (U 

In Memory of Pearley C — , . . . . . . . OG 

Beautiful Ice Gems, G<"^ 

Sweet Flowers, "<> 

My Darling 71 

One Lonely Bleeding Heart 72 

Faded Flowers, 75 

Sounds That I Love 78 



CONTENTS. 



Snow Flakes, 79 

A Welcome, 79 

Gathering Clouds, 80 

Come Hope, 80 

My Home, 81 

Clara, We Miss Thee, 81 

Eva, Gone But Not Forgotten, 82 

For a Friend, 82 

My Childhood, ........... 83 

True Love, . , 84 

True Friendship, 86 

Amusements, ^ . . . 87 

To an Unknown Friend, . 89 

Only an Ivy Leaf, 89 

Dreaming of The Past, 91 

Lines on the Death of Mattie Stone, .... 92 

Trust in God, 93 

Strive to Do Right, 94 

The Maple, 95 

Merry Christmas, 96 

Death of The Old Year, 97 

School Has Closed, ......... 98 

Sweet, Sad Music, 99 

Ode to a Streamlet, . 99~ 

To a Sister Poet, 102 

Her Rosey Bower, 103 

A Death Bed Scene, 104 

The P..esurreclion of The Flowers, 104 

The Fall of The Dude, .107 



CONTENTS. 



To James G. Percival, 108 

Beautiful Snow, 109 

The Works of God, 110 

Going to Church in The Sleigh, Ill 

Chester, 112 

Ruth. 113 

Why? .114 

November Winds, 116 

Mother is Gone, 117 

Unfinished, 118 

Mother's Old Arm-Chair, 120 

Have Ye Seen Her? 122 

'Tis Sweet to Die, . 123 

"Jet," ' 125 

The Long and Short of It, 127 

Fight For Your Freedom, , 128 

The Valentine, ... J 30 

Autuinn and Death, 131 

Summer's Charms, 133 

In Memory of a Nephew, 134 

Autumn's Reign, 13«> 

Roses, 137 

To a Wren, . 138 

To a Canary, 139 

The Bird Serenade, 139 

The First Rose of Springtime, 140 

A Prayer, 140 

Rest, 141 

Musings, 141 



CONTENTS. 



Two Visions, 142 

To Faith in Heaven, . .148 

The Sweet Peas That Bloom in The Garden, . . 148 
At Our Darlino's Grave, 149 







t^^/-^//-. 



'•Farewell. O, my Laugliins' Water! 
All my heart is burried with you, 
All my thoughts go onward with you I 



mritiiids of f aitb €lizabetb Hickell. 



:^ 



ittt^tffffi^ 



CONTENTvS. 



Lord Hansford's Daughter, 31 

Euth Darwin, 3G 

Deepening- Twilight, oil 

Cedar Hill Romance, 40 

November Winds, 41 

Two Little Blue Cats, 42 

Sing Birdie, 42 

Your Grand Child, 42 

My Kitty, 43 

Musings, 45 

Earth's Beauty Cannot Abide, 4<) 

The Seasons, 47 

Christmas Greeting, 49 

Night, 411 

Winter Evening, 50 

Fair but False, 51 

Winter, 53 



INTRODUCTION. 



<fi <K< <tt^ /iV ^(V 



Cms little volume is presented to the public, with 
the fervent hope that somewhere in its contents, the 
reader may find something to appreciate: — that the un- 
pretentious thoughts pictured on its pages, may find a 
response in some heart. If this be so, then our efforts 
have not been in vain. 

The few selections from the pen of the child — (the 
depth of whose loss cannot be transferred to paper) — 
the brief memoir and tributes will, in part, convey to 
the mind of the reader, a picture of her character; and 
if some child find it worthy of imitation, then her short 
life has fulfilled the mission for which God gave it. 

Nothing has been exaggerated and indeed very lit- 
tle has been told. 

She, of course, had imperfections; but her faults, 
when compared with her virtues, seem so insignificant, 
that they fade away as they recede into the background. 
Her efforts in composition cannot be criticised; no one 
would think of criticising the work of one so young as 
the "child-author." 

As for the production of m}^ own brain, I shall ex- 
pect criticism — and though the work may be full of im- 



INTRODUCTION. 



perfections, do not judge too harshly; — remember that 
sometimes "circumstances alter cases." Never since 
the creation of the world, have we had record of but 
one perfect mind — that was the Christ mind. But did 
our model of perfection escape the critic? 0, no; we 
find a certain class in those days ever ready to slander 
Christ and his cause. Then if perfection escape not, 
how can imperfection? The critic is old as the everlast- 
iuo- hills and will live until time ceases to be. 

Poesy, all thinkers will tell you, is a gift; — then if 
it be a gift, who bestows it? We hear the w^hispered 
answer: — "God;" and why? Because the bible tells us 
that "every perfect gift is from above." We further 
learn that God does nothing in vain. Then we must 
draw the conclusion that He intends us to make the best 
possible uses of our gifts. And though, environment 
may hold some of us back, and through its strong oppo- 
sition, we may be compelled to abandon the dearest 
wish of our heart — to do something great in the "field 
of thought' — yet l)y dilligent search, we may be able to 
find, somewhere, a channel — though it be uiulcr- ground 
— through which our sympathies may flow to those who 
need them. 

Dear friend, if in perusing these pages, you find 
an3^thing that affords you a moment of pleasure; an}'- 
thing that tends to elevate, purify, beautify, or to draw 
you nearer to a future life, then give God the honor; for 
to Him belong all honor and glor}'. 



10 INTRODUCTION. 



We siucereh^ tender our thanks to those who so 
ghidly gave tributes to the memory of one, who "though 
dead, yet speaketh." 



New Market, July 14, 1900. 






R. A. I. N, 



MEMOIR. 

111^ /(s /i> ^\ <^tv 

••It's a loiig way home — but 1 seem to see her e3'es, 
Like stars a-twinkling, twinkling in the far and friendly 

skies: 
Skies that nre friendly only, because 1 think that she 
Is waiting- wdiere theyre bending with a welcome kiss 

for me."' 

Friends, have you ever stood at the graves of your 
loved ones and felt that life held less for you since their 
departure? 

Parents, have you stood by the death -bed of your 
children nnd as the pains of dissolution slowly severed 
the silver cord, have you felt how gladly you w^ould 
endure that suffering if thereby your darling could 
escape? 

Mother, have you given to earth's cold embrace 
your only child — whose life was far dearer to you than 
your own? As you bend over the little mound and 
wreathe it with flowers, do you feel that your hopes, 
your youth and your very heart are hurried in the grave 
with your darling? Then through mutual sympathy we 
may help to bear each others burdens. 1 had thought 



12 MEMOIR. 



when my mother died that my cup of sorrow was full ; 
but when four months later, death caixe again and took 
our sweet, pure heart-flower — our darling Faith, then it 
was, I realized that life in this world would be for me, 
one long, dark night. 

1 commence this memoir of our dear child, feeling 
that although 1 can do her memory justice only in a 
small degree, yet at the same time holding it a sacred 
duty to perform the work — (as 1 shall attempt to do — 
truthfully and conscienciousl3^) 

Faith Elizabeth Nickell was born September 9th, 
1888, near New Market, in Montgomery County, Indi- 
ana. 

She was one of those unusually bright children, 
who attract attention even from baby-hood. Before she 
was two years old, she recited bible verses in Sunday 
School, plain enough to be heard and understood by all 
in the room ; and when three years of age, recited in 
public pieces of considerable length, in a clear, well 
modulated voice and distinct enunciation. At nbout 
this age, she also began to form letters into words; and 
when she had reached the age of four could read very 
well. 

An amusing little incident occurred when the child 
was five years old. One morning while engaged in 
household duties, I noticed her unusual quietness and 
stepping inside the room, was surprised to lind her seat- 
ed in a large chair, deepl}^ interested in a book, which 



MEMOIR. 13 



proved to be ''Memoruil Addresses on the Life of 
Thomas A. Hendricks." When 1 asked her what she 
was reading about, she gave me a correct idea of the 
theme. She was missing the words too hard for her to 
pronouuce, yet gathering sufficient thought from the 
writer to keep her interested. 

When about four 3ears old she began forming 
words into sentences, and when four and a half, com- 
posed a little stanza about the bird on the rosebush at 
the window; after printing it with pencil on paper, she 
brought it to me, saying, "Mamma, 1 have made some 
poetry. " 

It was about this time in her life that 1 began to 
mark changes in her appearance, physically, mentally, 
and spiritually. When aroused by strong emotion, one 
could almost see the soul shining in her face. It was 
on one of these occasions when becoming so ftisinated 
with her countenance, in its lights and shades, 1 picked 
up pencil and paper, wrote a little sketch of her, 
put it away and thought no more of it until a short time 
ago when I found it and will copy it here: 

"My only child is a girl of four and a half years. 
She is slenderly built, with features of rather delicate 
mold, a small mouth, with cherry-red lips; eyes that re- 
flect the azure of heaven; a complexion like the apple- 
blossom, and a smiling countenance. With a sweet dis- 
position; a tender, sym[)athetic heart; a deep, beautiful 
mind, and a soul full of love and truth." 



14 MEMOIR. 



It is through our love for the good and beautiful 
and our imitation of high examples that we grow spirit- 
uall3^ Each of us have planted within us a spark called 
conscience. If we fan that spark into a flame, feed it 
on the proper fuel, (which is love, generosit}', self-sacri- 
fice and true devotion to God,) we can then live in a 
spiritual atmosphere which cannot be far from heaven. 
We are aware that this original spark is much greater in 
some persons than in others; yet if properly tended it 
may grow into a living flame and burn brightly upon the 
altar of the heart. So it was with the subject of our 
sketch. She kept the fire of conscience always brightly 
burning She had a peculiar tenderness for all inno- 
nt, helpless creatures, and would give them help and 
protection whenever in her power. We have often 
found her making self-sacrifices to her friends and even 
to those who had no claim upon her friendship. 

Her nature being extremely sensitive, a harsh word 
or a slight — especially from one she loved, would wound 
her deeply, though it was always borne with heroism. 

Being a true worshiper at "Nature's Shrine," she 
adored flowers and was never happier than when arrang- 
ing them to give to her friends or the sick or unfortu- 
nate. She was deeply fond of her pets; without them, 
life would have seemed incomplete. 

The love she bore her friends was deep and sincere; 
the affection and devotion felt for her parents was truly 
wonderful. She could not separate from them though 



MEMOIR. 



just for ti short time without a good-bye kiss or a fond 
embrace. 

"When nine years old, she desired to write in our 
all)unis. but instead of copying something as is usutdly 
d<;ne, she wrote out of iier own heart. Following are 
her autographs : 

"New Market, Tnd.. Nov. 25, 1S!)7." 
"Dear Papa: 

EA'er remember our thanksgiving dinner of !>". 
How it rained all day and how cosy it was at home: and 
ever remember Your Only Little Girl who loves you. 

Faith." 

"New Market, Ind. Nov.. 25, 18U7.' 
"Dear Mamma: 

'Tis sweet to remember the many happy hours we 
have spent together and the man}' times we have felt 
safe in each other's presence. Your Loving Daughter, 

Faith Nick ell. 
Thanksgiving Day. ' ' 

Then in a little scroll she added: "Ever will 1 
love thee."' 

Faith was never in school until after her seventh 
birthday; at this time she had read many books, imbib- 
ing their contents with a wonderful zest and rapidity, 
and retaining in memory the substance of almosi every- 
thing she read. After reading a few times, she could 
rehearse, word for word, many pages. When ten years 
old, she had read all the books in our possession and 



16 MEMOIR. 



many others she had obtained from, friends and public 
libraries — re-reading those that pleased her fancy most. 
The teacher, one day asked the members of Faith's 
class to write sketches of their lives in as few lines as 
possible. We give hers just as she wrote it. 

"lAIY OWN LIFE." 

"My name is Faith Elizabeth Nickell. I was born 
in Montgomery County, Indiana, near New Market, 
September 9, 1888. The names of my parents are 
Frank and Annie Nickell. They used to be school 
teachers, but now they farm m^ost of the time. My tirst 
recollections of home are of the farm, the pretty flower 
beds and the row of cedars on the North side of the 
yard. 

I was past seven when I started into my first term 
of school, which was here at Whitesville. Miss Hom- 
baker was my teacher. I liked her very much. 1 began 
school in the second year's work. 

Before J. was quite two years old, mamma took. me 
to Lafayette to visit my uncle and aunt. I remember 
uncle Brook took auntie, mamma and myself driving; 
we went but to 'Tecumse's Trail,' and crossed the 
Wabash River on a big bridge. 

I am now ten years old. Should like in future to 
be an elocutionist. " 

Again, when the teacher asked the class, each to 
tell something of his favorite books, she wrote: — "1 
have two favorite books and cannot decide between 



MEMOIR. 17 



them. The title of one is 'Great Expectations,' and the 
other is 'Longfellow's Poems ' 'Great Expectations' is 
a book of prose by Charles Dickens. What interests me 
especially about it, is the life of the hero — 'Philip.' 
My favorite pjem of Longfellow is ' Hiawatha.' " 

Faith gave her teachers very little trouble at school; 
her respect for them, her self-respect, well prepared les- 
sons, and obedience kept them always on the best of 
terms Daring her short life, she had but four teachers. 
The tributes of the last three will be given at the close 
of this memoir. Miss Hornbaker, her first teacher, says 
of her in a letter: "Nothing too beautiful could be said 
to her memory. I can truly say, 1 never had a pupil 
who was as remarkable in all things as she. There was 
not one line of work in which she was not extraordi- 
narily bright — far above the average child. Mentally, 
she was far beyond her years." 

True religion springeth from the heart, and with 
our darling it was a deep and sacred feeling that enabled 
her to see be3^ond the grave. The contents of the bible 
were quite familiar to her, having read much of it many 
times. Her incite into its deep spiritual truths was 
marvelous. Many beautiful ideas were revealed to her 
that seemed hidden from others much older than herself. 
She loved to listen to a good sermon, and after returning 
home could give it in substance, often repeating much of 
it verbatim. 

The sound of the Sabbath School bell was an inspi- 
ration to her; and though the weather was bitter cold, 



18 MEMOIR. 



she could not resist its invitation. Each Sabbath found 
her there, an ardent worker and believer in its cause 
every where. When nine years old, the office of Secre- 
tary was placed upon her. For a term of almost two 
years she did the work faithfully and well, then resigned 
and at the time of her death was Treasurer. 

Faith had a passionate love for music and although 
entirely untaught, could go to the instrument and play 
with almost perfect harmony any ordinary piece; and 
when her voice broke forth in song, it was clear and 
sweet as the chimes of a silver bell. 

As we write, a picture of her, as she used to appear 
when reciting some beautiful or pathetic piece, presents 
itself. We see the many changes of expression in her 
face, the spiritual light that shown in her eyes and 
glowed in her countenance until she seemed transfigured 
into something not of earth. We watch the graceful 
jestures and listen to the sweet voice that convej^ed so 
much meaning to those who were interested in her. 

Just five months previous to Faith's death, we at- 
tended a reunion in Fountain County;, she was solicited 
to recite and her nam.e placed upon the program. In 
commenting upon the program "The Rockville Tribune" 
says a word for her, from which we quote: 'Is There 
No Grod?' was declaimed by little Faith Nickell, of New 
Market. This particular rendition was an honor to the 
occasion. Little Faith is but a child, yet she is one of 
the best declaimers in Western Indiana." Thus it is; 
we see her in recitation ; we see her in pursuance of her 



MEMOIR. 19 



studies; we see her with paints and brushes, creating 
beautiful pictures of land-scapes, houses, flowers and 
portraits of persons (that were said to be very much like 
the original;) we see her as she assists her mamma in 
domestic atl'airs ; we see her with her papa in the field, or 
engaged with him in some outdoor work; we see her in 
her favorite sports; we see her in everything, and feel 
her influence at all times. It has often been said of her 
that she was never a child. Some persons termed her 
the "child- woman;" but there was one thing in which 
she was truly a child— in her love for play and fun; no 
child ever enjoj^ed a game or romp better than she; her 
cup of happiness indeed seemed full when those she 
loved were gathered around her and all engaged in some 
amusing play. 

Faith's illness was of short duration, so short in- 
deed was it that we could scarcely realize as we stood by 
the little form whose eyes the icy touch of death had 
forever sealed, that it was the same in which one week 
before, the current of life had flowed so warm and free, 
as she returned home from school, bounding into the 
room, her face lit up with the same sunny smile that was 
so characteristic of her. There are times yet, although 
more than five months have passed since her loved im- 
mage was concealed beneath the "clods of the valley," 
that we feel she must be with us; we seem to be waiting 
in anticipation of seeing her enter the room. We are 
ever listening for the sound of her voice or her light 
foot-fail. She was deeply loved and honored by those 



20 MEMOIR. 



who knew her best and when it became known that she 
had forever passed away, many were the tears of true 
sorroiv that were mingled with ours. Many letters of 
sympathy were received — from a few of which we quote 
a line or two. One says: ''Though 1 have not been with 
her much of late, yet 1 always loved her dearly;" and 
another: "I cannot believe it. 0, tell me it is not 
true! You have no one whose heart is so full as mine. 
1 loved her because she was worthy. ' ' The following is 
taken from a letter from Rev. Marion Crosley: "1 
could not believe it. 1 do not see now how it can be. 
I passed through Whitesville Monday while the funeral 
was at the church and saw from the car window, the 
white hearse standing in front. I thought almost aloud 
to myself: Can that bright, sweet, promising girl have 
gone from earth? 1 do not know when I have been so 
interested in a child before. She was so full of a desire 
for knowledge, and so highly gifted. I took ever so 
much delight in talking to her. Her intelligence and 
natural gifts were unusual. Why the Angel messenger 
came and called her away from earth we can never know 
in this life. Sometime in the bright world beyond we 
shall know. It is a great loss to parents and friends. 
Words and pen fail me in my attempt to offer comfort. 
How father and mother's hearts must ache and bleed. 
Grod be with them until they meet their child again — in 
the 'Land that is fairer than day. ' Their source of 
comfort is in the fact that it is well with the child — that 
she has eone home 'to die no more' — that she is free 



MEMOIR. 21 



from pain and temptation — 'Safe in the arms of Jesus.' 
She is still their child and lives more than she ever lived 
before. She is an angel of light and was too pure and 
bright for earth. The good Father had something in 
heaven for her to do." 

Many notices of her death and tributes to her mem- 
ory were given in different papers. We give in part one 
written b}^ Rev. I. B. Grrandy: "Faith was the only 
child of Frank and Annie Nickell. An unusually bright 
and promising child of highly poetic nature; and would 
have graduated soon. While a member of no church on 
earth, she was born into the kingdom of Christ, and car- 
ried his spirit in her heart and lived day by day under 
its light, ever hopeful of this life and of that to come. 
Her life was one of love at home and among her associ- 
ates. She had no enemies. The earthly home, so lonely 
today is illuminated b}^ the star of hope, and a realiza- 
tion that a home, the house not made with hands is oc- 
cupied by one more adapted to that than to this world. 
Clouds and darkness here — illimitable light on the other- 
side." 

Her life reminds us of a rosebud, that in its growth 
— each day reveals a new beauty ; but just as its delicate 
color and sweet perfume began to attract the passer-by^ 
the -'Reaper" came that way, and with his "Sickle keea" 
harvested the precious bud and the power of its worth 
can never be known on earth as if it had remained on 
the parent stem until it had burst forth into the full- 
blown rose. We had great hopes for her — so gifted, so 



22 MEMOIR. 



pure in character, so rinassnmiag; — we feel that if she 
had been spared until the noon-tide of her life, that her 
noble nature would have brightened many a dark life. 
Yet short as her earth- journey has been, we feel that her 
ministry of love and truth has made a lasting impres- 
sion for good. Her life on earth is ended and God knew 
best when to transplant the sweet flower into a purer at- 
mosphere. And it is He alone, who can know the an- 
guish of soul, and the depth of pain in the heart at such 
a separation. Still we must try to put an imperishable 
trust in Him as she did when her dying lips uttered the 
words: "Papa, I can trust Him," then, though every 
word was a great effort, attempted to sing "My heavenly 
home is bright and fair." 

Dear, trusting little heart; we are yearning to be- 
hold her again, and feel her soft cheek pressed to ours 
as in days gone by. Her personality, affection and 
worth have consecrated everything about her home. 
Three weeks before she left us, she wrote a short poem 
— "Deepening Twilight," — which seems strangely pro- 
phetic of her approaching death. She passed away on 
the morning of February 3, 1900. When the summons 
came, she met it bravely; and died as she had lived — 
with a smile. 

The funeral services were held at the Universalist 
Church at Whitesville, conducted by Rev. I. B. Grandy, 
assisted by Prof. G. S. McGaughy. Although the day 
was quite cold, the attendance was unusually large, 
many of whom the church would not accommodate. 



MEMOIR. 23 



There were many beautiful floral offerings. The white 
casket, as it was born along by the class-mates of the 
unconscious sleeper, looked like a living flower-bed. 
Thus, was she followed by a long procession of friends 
to the Harshbarger Cemetery. There, in that quiet 
country ''village of the dead," our darling "sleeps the 
sleep that knows no waking." We close this brief mem- 
oir of our loved one, by a stanza from the pen of Hettie 
E. Holms: 

"Dead! dead! and 1 unreconciled, because 1 loved 

her so; 
In spite of all my hopes of heaven, the blinding 

tears will flow. 
With faith and hope and prayer and tears, 1 lay her 

form away; 
But in paradise I know she blooms a fadeless flower 

today ; 
And the Angel in that paradise, will give her back 

to me. 
Clothed in a robe— a shining robe of immortality; 
And though in darkness I may wait the light at 

eventide. 
Heaven, 1 know, will brighter be, for the little girl 

that died." 

Her Mamma. 






TRIBUTES. 

IN MEMORY OF OUR FRIEND AND SCHOOL-MATE, 
FAITH NICKELL. 



Her seat in school is empty, 
And 0, we miss her much; 

Her life was sweet and g'entle, 
We wish that ours were such. 

The daj^ was cold and bitter 

When we bore her to the grave; 

And in visions we can see her 
As she floats across the wave. 

Her cold and silent body 
Lay free from earthly care; 

(For her spirit is now in heaven 
With our God and Father dear.) 

The day will come when we must go 
To that heavenly home above; 

Where angels sing so sweet and low, 
And all our life is love. 



TRIBUTES. 25 



As weeks roll on and years go by, 

Our time will shorter grow. 
And as we think of that bright day 
Our spirits with rapture flow. 
Her Class-mates, 

Ethel Davidson, 
Olive Hinkle. 



IN MEMORY OF FAITH. 



Dear Faith, has gone from this bright world. 

The heavenly paths to trod; 
She's done with all life's care and pain, 

And gone to dwell with God. 

Our hearts grew sad to see her go; 

It was our last good-bye; 
Our prayers and hopes were all in vain. 

Death broke the earthly tie. 

Her iiome is sad and lonely now; 

There sits her vacant chair: 
The grief of those who loved her most 

Seems more than tliey can bear. 

Her life was short upon this earth; 

Her work in Sabbath School is o'er; 
Her teachers who have loved her so. 

Will hear her voice no more. 



TRIBUTES. 



Thank God, she died with faith in Christ, 

That He hath power to save, 
And give his children here on earth 
Eternal life beyond the grave. 

One of her Sabbath School Teachers, 

Mrs. Jennie Jones. 



IN MEMORY OF FAITH. 



Another hand has becond us, 

Another call was given; 
And glows once more with angel steps, 
The path which reaches heaven. 
On the 3rd of February, 1900, the cold hand of 
death was laid upon little Faith Nickell, who was just 
in the n»orning of life. Though only eleven years old, 
she possessed a mind equal to that of maturity. Her 
actions were those of the purest, and done with a God- 
like spirit. 

How well I remember a quotation given by her 
while a pupil of mine — given as an answer to the ques- 
tion, "What should life mean?" It was this: 

"Do noble things, and dream them ail day long; 
Make life, death, and all the great forever one 

grand, sweet song." 
As a student, 1 doubt if any excels, and perhaps 
we may never meet her equal. Her power to interpret 



TRIBUTES. 27 



literature was astonishing to all of her teachers ; and she 
had written poems that only true critics were able to 
judge. Should she have been spared but a few more 
short 3^ears, her name no doubt, would have been fitly 
coupled with the Carey Sisters, but alas, she is gone. 

Her life was only a glad good-morning. 

As she passed along the way; 
But she spread the morning glory, 

That will cheer us on our way. 

Sherman Vanscoyoc. 
Her Teacher in 1898. 



A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF 
FAITH. 



It is with a feeling of pleasure, mingled with sad- 
ness, that I attempt to write a tribute to the memory of 
one whose character was so good and pure. 

Faith was always attentive to her school duties and 
never showed to me the least disrespect, either by word 
or look, and I often found myself thinking she was too 
good for this world. 

She was polite to her schoolmates, and to every 
one, and to be truly polite one must necessarily be good, 
just and generous. These traits of character were the 
outward signs of those spiritual graces which may be 



28 TRIBUTES. 

designated as the index to the soul. Her conversation 
was innocent because her life was pure. She possessed 
a sympathetic heart, and her manner was so gentle and 
loving that it can truly be said, ' 'that to know her was 
to love her." 

She possessed an unusually bright intellect: 1 seem 
to see her even now as she is reciting, and her very 
countenance becoming illuminated by the beautiful in- 
terpretation of some passage in her reading lesson. 

1 cannot help but think that in her death a beautiful 
little light in the intellectual world has gone out, and 
that earth has been robbed of one of its shining stars. 
Bright little star, for earth too dear. 
In heaven above is shining clear; 
A beacon of light for you and me. 

As we near death's portals we may see 
The angel form of the innocent child, 

Who shared earth's trials for one brief while, 
Then took her exit to the shining shore. 

Where she waits and beckons us to come o'er. 
Mrs. W. F. Sharpe, 

One of her Teachers. 



IN MEMORIAM. 



Faith E. Nickell, the subject of this sketch, died 
Feb. 3, 1900. Age 11 years, 4 months and 25 days. 



TRIBUTES. 29 



There are some mortals that seem to have been 
handed down lo us, out of the eternal city of God, to 
startle us by their spiritual powers and by their grasp of 
truth. They walk with God while they are here and 
then, like Enoch of old, they are not, for God has taken 
them. 

If there are such, evidently our little friend was 
such a one. Her heart was full of love. She was as 
sweet and tender as a rosebud. Poetry was the music 
(^f her soul. In her spirit was the rhythm of the ideal, 
universal and emotional. She had all the possibilities, 
spiritually and mentally, of a renowned poet. She 
would have been known in the world of letters. We 
have not overdrawn the picture; she was all that we 
have said, and more. 

It was on account of her remarkable ability that her 
friends, teachers and parents had put so much store by 
her. 

Many a time have I, as her instructor, propounded 
questions to her and her class-mates that 1 thought none 
of them could answer, but there were very, very few 
times that her little hand did not go up, ready with an 
intelligent reply. 

Faith's sickness was only for a week. She was in 
school on Friday of the week previous to her death. 

Her spirit was too great for her poor, frail body, 
and it burst the bounds and obtained eternal freedom. 

She had a marked appreciation for the best litera- 
ture. One of her favorite poems was "Crossing the 



30 TRIBUTES. 



Bar," by Alfred Tennyson, from which she quoted and 
commented upon just a few days before her departure. 
Most certainly do 1 believe that the lines in this poem 
express her sentiments about death: 

"Sunset and evening star. 

And one clear call for me! 
And may there be no moaning of the bar, 
When I put out to sea; 

But such a tide as moving seems asleep. 

Too full for sound and foam [deep 

When that which drew from out the boundless 
Turns again home. 

Twilight and evening bell; 

And after that the dark! 
And may there be no sadness of farewell 

When 1 embark; 

For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place, 

The flood may bear me far, 
I hope to see my Pilot face to face, 

When I have crossed the bar." 

It is finished and "she hath done what she could." 
Her memory will live in my heart of hearts until my 
appointed time comes, and 1 shall see her with my 
"Pilot face to face." 

G. S. McGaughey, 

Her last Teacher. 



LORD HANSFORTH'vS DAUGHTER. 



Lord Hansforth lived in sunny England with his 
beautiful wife and daughter. 

Lenore was the pride of both parents. She was 
tall and slender, with black, curling hair and black eyes. 
She was popular, of course, and had many suitors, but 
she refused them all. 

One day, as she sat in one of the luxurious rooms 
of the old castle, she said to her father, playfully: "Papa, 
1 wish that something of interest would happen. Every- 
thing seems to go on so smoothly." Her father laughed: 
"Well, my dear, I have invited a young nobleman here 
for a visit, and I hope you will like him. I would like 
to see you safely married soon, for 1 will not be with you 
always, dear." "Now, papa," said Lenore, with a pout, 
"if you are going to marry me, whether 1 want to or 
not, 1 will just give up." Her father placed his finger 
upon her lips laughingl}^, and kissing his hand she ran 
away. 

The next day the expected company came — Sir 
Walter Elmore by name. He immediately fell in love 
with the beautiful Lenore, and his sole wish was to win 
her heart and hand. As for her, she liked his free and 
easy ways, but she never thought of him as a suitor. 



32 STORIES. 



During one of their drives Sir Walter said, "1 am 
going to get an artist to paint 3^our picture for me while 
I am here, Miss Lenore." "Ah! and shall I have to 
pose?" said she. "Why, I suppose so," said Elmore — 
"I want you to look j^our prettiest, though." Lenore 
laughed. "He is coming to-morrow," said her compan- 
ion. The following day the artist, Arthur Halway, ar- 
rived. He was tall and slim and dark brown curls clus- 
tered around his forehead. His eyes were dark and his 
face well moulded, while his dress was simple but suited 
him well. He obtained one of the uppermost rooms of 
the Hansforth castle and there for one hour each day 
Lenore sat for her picture. 

Now, Arthur Halway loved Lenore at first sight; 
she was so sweet, so lovable, that he thought he would 
give the world to be in Elmore's place; but it was better 
for him that he was not. 

One day as he was walking through the park alone, 
as he thought, he suddenly saw Lenore ahead of him. 
She looked so beautiful that he went to her and they 
began talking of the picture. "Lenore," said Arthur, 
"you are going to give Sir Elmore the picture, and if 
you could only gwe me the original, I would be the hap- 
piest man in the world. You know I love you, but I 
fear it is all in vain. Is it? tell me Lenore." Lenore 
blushed, and putting her hand in the artist's, said gently: 
"No, Arthur, it has not been in vain, but my father 
would never consent to our marriage. " ' 'I will beg him, 
and tell him that you love me, for you do, do you uot?" 



STORIES. 



"Yes, yon are the only man 1 ever loved," said Lenore. 
Arthur kissed her and went to ask her father for her 
hand. Lord Hansforth was surprised beyond bounds 
when the poor artist came up to him and said: "Lord 
Hansforth, you will no doubt think strange when you 
have heard what I have to say to you. I have come. 
Lord Hansforth, to ask the hand of your daughter in 
marriage. She loves me and none other. Although 1 
am poor, I can work and 1 hope make her happy; what 
is your answer?" 

For a moment Lord Hansforth was dumb with sur- 
prise, and when he found voice he cried: "What! you! 
a man without a penn}^, ask a nobleman's daughter in 
marriage! Young man, 1 give yon to understand that 
my daughter is for a man who can take care of her; I 
guess I can attend to that, and as for you, begone, and 
never let me hear from 3'OU again about here;" and Lord 
Hansforth, white with rage, walked into the next room. 

Arthur went to Lenore and told her that her father 
was very angrv with him, and that he must go away — 
"and if 3'ou love me well enough, could you go with me? 
but no, I ought not ask you. It is best that you forget 
me and marry Elmore; for 1 have nothing but a small 
sum of money each month for my pictures to offer j^ou, 
m}; dear, though it is ver}- hard to leave you." Lenore's 
ey^es flashed as she said, "Arthur, 1 will go, 1 will not 
marry Sir Elmore; listen, I will go to the house and 
make out you have gone away, and 1 will meet you at 
the gate at seven." When Lenore's father said at dinner 



34 STORIES. 

that evening: ''Has that rascal gone?" "1 guess so," 
said Tienore, and then was silent. 

In a few moments her mother called her and said, 
^'dear, what is it that troubles you, or makes you so sad?" 
Lenore said, "0, nothing, mamma." 

At seven she went to the gate but there was nothing 
to be seen of the artist; she went back to the house and 
up to her pretty room, but could not sleep. Where was 
he? Was he false? she thought; and then again, "What 
is he to me? 1 cannot work! If I married him I should 
regret it, for he is poor and 1 should have to work!" 
But her consience seemed saying: "You love him! you 
love him!" and burying her face in the pillows she wept. 
"Shall I have to Marry Elmore? 0, dear, dear, what 
shall I do?" Sir Elmore was gone away to London and 
would be back on the morrow. The next day a distin- 
guished looking gentleman came to the castle; his name 
was Orion Terapleton. He was handsome and very 
wealthy and Lenore liked him very much, and when he 
asked her to walk with him in the park she gladly went. 

In his company she almost forgot Arthur Hal way, 
but when He said, "1 am very fond of painting," Lenore 
turned pale and looked at him strangely, he held out his 
arms and cried, "Lenore, don't you know me darling?" 
and throwing off his disguise, Arthur Halway stood be- 
fore her. "0! Arthur," she cried, "why did you do it?" 
and he told her that just as he was going away from her 
be was handed a message saying that by the death of a 
relative he had become independently rich. 



STORIES. 35 



He knew that if he came back to Lenore then her 
father would not listen to his story, so he went away 
and dressed finely, then came as another man. Then he 
told Lord Hansforth, and Lenore adding her pleadings 
to that of her lover, her father consented to their en- 
gagement, and when Sir Elmore came back he found he 
was too late. 

1 need not add that they were married and lived to 
be grandmother and grandfather. 






RUTH DARWIN 



Ruth Darwin was a hunter's daughter and lived in 
the dense forest with her father. 

Her gentle mother had died when she was but four 
years old and the father had bestowed on the little orphan 
all his affections. Thus she grew up his pet and dar- 
ling. At the age of eighteen she was slender, with 
curling hair, like sunshine, and eyes like heaven's own 
blue, with a nature as wild, yet shy and gentle, and a 
figure as graceful as the deer that roamed the forest 
about her; she feared nothing, and was familiar with 
every {art of the forest. Not far from their home was 
a beautiful lake on which Ruth loved to row her pretty 
boat. 

One night her father said to her, ."There is a young 
man hiding somewhere hereabouts, accused of a crime, 
and if they find him they will no doubt hang him without 
ceremony." Ruth's blue eyes sparkled with excitement; 
she felt that something was going to happen. That 
night she had a strange dream; she thought that a vil- 
lainous looking man stabbed to the heart, another and 
older man, then quietly escaped. Then another, young 
and handsome, soon came and after seeing the dead 
figure, knelt down and examined it closely "He is 



STORTES. 37 



dead! dead! but I will have revenge," he cried, and the 
fine e3'es flashed. Then she awoke; the wind was moan- 
ing through the forest in that peculiar tone that foretells 
the coming of a storm. She arose and went to the door. 
As she looked out into the darkness her dream loomed up 
before her with terrible distinctness and her thoughts 
were of the 3'oung man who was innocent; and of his 
probable fate. Suddenly she heard a sound that made 
her heart stand still. It was — yes, it was the sound of 
footsteps. She would have wakened her father, but a 
thought came to her and she ca'mly waited. From out 
of the forest came a man, tall and stronoj lookino-, with 
dark hair and eyes. Ruth did not flee, for it was the 
young man of her dream! When he was quite close she 
spoke in a low, clear voice, "stranger what seek you?" 
He paused, somewhat startled, but Ruth said, "don't 
fear, I am your friend, and will help you if 1 can." 
Then he said: "I am an innocent man, closely pursued, 1 
am accused of a crime of which another is guilty. Do 
you know of any -safe hiding-place, kind lady? If so, I 
would be very thankful to you if you would direct me to 
it." "Yes, sir," said she, "I know of one beyond the 
lake, but you will have to cross to attain it;" Just then 
they heard the sound of the barking of dogs, and More- 
land Gaskill, for that was the young man's name, started 
and his face grew white and drawn. '-Come, we must be 
off," and she disappeared into the house long enough to 
take a loaf of bread from the pantry, then reappeared, 
saving:: "follow me, for we have no time to lose." The 



38 STORIES. 



faint light of the moon, which fell through ragged masses 
of clouds, only served to make the scene more weired. 
Now and then low peals of thunder were heard. Soon 
they reached the shore of the lake where a boat was 
moored. The lake, which was usually smiling and dimp- 
ling in the soft breeze, now looked dark and sullen, and 
there were foam-capped waves on its surface. It was a 
perilous adventure, but Ruth did not hesitate when a 
human life was hanging on her bravery, as it were. 

Together they launched the boat and were soon row- 
ing out into the darkness, for the clouds had completely 
hidden the moon. The wind howled loudly, and flashes 
of lightning now and then lit up the gloom. 

Had it not been for Ruth's skill in managing her 
skiff, the hungry water wouM surely have swallowed 
them up, but at inst tiiey reached the opposite shore. 

Meanwhile the pursuers had come up to the forest 
cottage of Ruth's father. They wakened him, for Ruth 
had thought it best that he know noting of her adven- 
ture, and asked him if he had seen anything of a young 
man thereabouts; "he has killed Mr. G-askill and we 
wish that justice should be done to him," said one of 
the men. 

(Unfinished at the time of her death.) 



■'m^^- t 



DEEPENING TWILIGHT, 



]. 

The darkness is falling, 
And soft fades the light, 

As the twilight deepens 
Into the night. 

2. 
The west is all darkened 

By clouds piled up high. 
While the bright evening star 

Takes its place in the sky. 

3. 
How soft, yet how cheery, 

It sheds its bright light, 
Asthe twilight deepens 

Into the night. 

-1. 
When life's race is ended 

And we near the dark tomb, 
Those heavenly ra3^s 

Will pierce thro' the gloom. 



40 POEMS. 



5. 

0, then, with what rapture 
We'll gaze on that light 
As the twilight deepens 
Into the night. 
(Written by Faith three weeks before her death.) 



CEDAR HILL ROMANCE. 



1. 

Sir Knight of Cedar Hill once wooed 
A maiden dark as he. 
He won her and lie brought her home 
His cherished bride to be: — 

Her name w..s Ethiopia. 

2. 
He showed her o'er his hLuiting grounds 
That now had hers become; 
And happy was this dusky bride 
To view her future home — 
Yes, happy was Ethiopia. 

3. 
But scarcely had tiie honey-moon, 
Alas, began to wane. 
Till our Sir Knight had restless grown 
And wandered off again — 
Away from Ethiopia. 



POEMS. 41 



4. 

Sad-eyed and sorrowful went she 
About her daily work; — 
Determined that what e'er befell, 
Her duty she'd not shirk — 
Brave little Ethiopia. 

5. 
She killed the game and brought it home- 
The game from off the farm: — 
Then she would call Sir Knight to dine; 
She never wished him harm — 

Generous Ethiopia. 
(Written at the Age of Nine Years.) 



NOVEMBER WINDS. 



1. 

November winds are siohino;, 

And winter is coming on; 
The beautiful leaves are dying, 

And all the flowers are gone. 
2. 
The robin sings no longer; 

For he is far away; 
And the wind grows stronger, stronger. 

With every new-born daj'. 
(Nine Years.) 



42 POEMS. 



TWO LITTLE BLUE CATS. 



Blue-bell — a sickly child is he — 
And is very afraid of the cold; 
But Pansy is stout as cat can be, 
And they'r just about three months old. 
(Nine Years ) 



SING BIRDIE. 



1. 

Sing, birdie, sing, 

While the red roses cling 
To the bushes so green! 

Sing, sing little queen. 
(Four and One-half Years.) 



YOUR GRAND-CHILD. 



1. 

You may look at the curls 
Of your grand-daughter fair. 

And see in her face 
The beauty so rare. 



POEMS. 13 



You may look at the lips 

That are smiling at you; 
And look in the eyes 

Of tenderest blue. 

3. 
Then comes a vision, 

Dream}^ and mild ; 
And you think of your daughter 

When she was a child. 

(Age Eight Years.) 

(Dedicated to her mamma. "Grand-child" meaning 
"doll") 



MY KITTY. 



1. 

'Night" is my kitty, 
So gentle and mild; 

Just two years ago 

He was starving and wild. 

2. 
He came to my home 

And became my pet, 
And he has never 

Forsaken me yet. 



41 POEMS. 



He was but a small kitten 
When he came to me; 

But DOW he's as big 
As he ever will be. 

4. 
He's a jet black coat, 

And a bosom white, 
And that is the reason 

We call him ' 'Night." 

5. 

He runs under the couch, 
And lays down on the floor 
Whenever he Hears 
Anyone at the door. 

6. 
He carries my dolls 

About on his back 
As dear old Santa Claus 

Carries his pack. 

7, 
Out in the yard 

We play together, 
Among the flowers, 

In pleasant weather. 



POEMS. 45 



Some limes he leaps up 

Intojuy lap, 
And with his soft paw 

My shoulder will tap. 

9. 
Now he is lying 

Down at my feet; . 
Soon with the fairies 

In dreamland he'll meet. 
(Eight Years.) 



MUSINGS. 



1. 

The March wicd sighs, 

And the air grows cold; 
The frost to the bushes clings; 

The robin hies 
To his haunts of old, 

Where of summer land he sings. 

2. 

You came too soon. 

Dear robin red-breast, 
To this changeful clime of ours, 



46 POEMS. 



Wait till spring's noon 
To build your nest, 

Amid the orchard flowers, 

(Age Nine Years.) 



EARTH'S BEAUTY CANNOT ABIDE. 



1. 

The wind is stilled, 

And the moon shines bright 
On the snow-covered ground 

This cold winter's night. 

2. 

Her light reveals 

A glorious sight; 
For the earth is covered 

With diamonds bright. 

3. 
Yet stoop to take them, 

They melt away; 
So it is with earth's treasures ; 

They cannot stay. 

(Age Nine Years.) 



POEMS. 47 



THE SEASONS. 



1. 

The days of spring 

Have now begun; 
And we oft behold 

The glorious sun. 

2. 
But feathery snow-flakes 

Cover the ground; 
In street and garden 

A home thej^'ve found. 

3. 

When summer comes 
With gentle wing, 

And we say farewell 
To merry spring; 

4. 

Then to the woods 
So happy we'll go, 

And think no more 
Of feathery snow. 

5. 

Next will come autumn — 
How glorious her dower; 

With glossy brown nuts. 
And gold autumn flower. 



48 ■ POEMS. 



.6. 
With leaves of all colors — 

Red, yellow and brown; 
While often soft rain-drops 

Come trickling down. 

7. 
Then snowy white winter 

Brings sleigh-rides again; 
Our dearly loved snowballs, 

And comic snow men, 

8. 
Christmas and presents 

For our friends so dear — 
The merriest season 

In all the year. 

9. 

Now these are the seasons 

Of all the year; — 
With rain drops and snow flakes 

And skies dark or clear. 

10. 
Thro' sunshine and shadow, 

White frost or fresh flowers. 
Time sweeps us right onward 

Thro' dark or bright hours. 

(Age Nine Years.) 



POEMS. 49 



CHRISTMAS GREETING. 



1. 

Hail to sweet Christmas — 
The birth-day of our King — 

Hail to the Christmas tree, 
And many presents bring. 

2. 
Make young hearts happy, 

As they ne'er have been before, 
And joyous dreams of Christmas 
Will come to them o'er and o'er, 
(Age Ten Years.) 



NIGHT. 



I. 

'Tis evening and softly the shadows creep 

Over this world of ours ; 
The sighing wind must the vigil keep 

O'er leaflets and tender flowers. 

II. 

The bright sun has sunken sweetly to rest, 
And peaceful night comes on ; 

She comes in soft dark draperies dressed 
To calm the busy throng 



50 POEMS. 



III. 
Of mankind working all day long — 

Earth's mission to fulfill; 
She throws her curtain o'r rich and poor, 

O'er lowland and craggy hill. 

IV. 

0, busy man, what wouldst thou do, 
Were it not for night's sweet balm? 

She drives away thy pain and care 
With her great, glorious calm. 

V. 

As I sit and think of thy virtues great. 
Sweet resting time of mortals, 

I seem to catch a gleam of light 
From the fair heavenly portals. 
(Age Ten Years.) 



WINTER EVENING. 



I. 

The wind sighs 'round our home to-night: 
All without is cold and drear. 

As shining in a cloudless sky 
The evening stars appear. 



POEMS. 61 



II. 

How bright and cheerful is their light, 

As they shine along the way ; 
Piercing the deepest shades of night 
With dim and gentle ray. 
(Composed by Faith a few days before her death, but 
unfinished.) 



FAIR BUT FALSE. 



1. 

A beautiful lady 

Once went to Japan, 
And wedded a "Jap," 

So the story ran. 

2. 

He was so true-hearted, 

And she was so fair; 
With beautiful eyes 

And bright golden hair. 

3. 

Her husband went off 

And would come back he said, 
But while he was gone 

Another she wed. 



52 POEMS. 



4. 
For she thought he had gone 

To never come back; 
And said 'twould be lonely 

A husband to lack. 

5. 

The second she married 
Was not suited to her; 

And so she left him 
And married another. 

6. 
When they had been married 

Just about a week, 
She found to her sorrow, 

He had too much cheek. 

7 
So she went away 

And roamed Japan o'er, 
Until she had found 

Her first husband once more. 

8 
And when she had found him, 

So happy they were; 
For he was so true 
And she was so fair. 
(Age Eleven Years.) 



POEMS. 53 



WINTER. 



1. 

The grasses now 
So white with snow, 

Have stood so lono; 
The wind's hard blow. 

2. 

And now they're sleeping 

In their bed, 
And feel no more 

Its death-like dread. 

3. 

The snow is coming 

Thick and fast; 
Yet still we love 
Cold winter's blast. 
(Age Seven Years.) 

(CONCLUSION OF FAITH'S WRITINGS.) 






54 POEMS. 



MAY. 



Oh! the beautiful month of May 
Has come to charm the earth again: 

Every bud now seems to say 

Welcome sunshine, welcome rain! 

The violet opes her eyes of blue 

To greet the morning light; 
The May rose decked in morning dew 

Presents a lovely sight. 

Of all the months, May is the queen — 

The merriest of the year; 
The forest wears his robe of green. 

The birds sing sweet and clear. 

The brooklets sparkle as they flow 

To join a wider stream, 
And sweetly murmur as they go; 

"How happy all things seem!" 

Now every face looks bright and gay, 

And every heart beats glad; 
For who, in merry, Tosey May, 

Could be cast down, or sad? 

Flower seed we plant in warm, moist earth, 

And soon the leaflets start; 
Just so they spring, when planted 

In the garden of the heart. 



POEMS. 55; 



Then let us plant the seeds of love 
And kindness eveiy day; 

And keep them fresh and fragrant 
As the flow'rs that bloom in May 
May, 1882. 



TO A BUTTERFLY. 



Poor little Butterfly, how canst thou live? 

Although to thee, our window we give. 
Two weeks hast thou been with us in this room; 

But I fear thou must die ere the flowers bloom. 

Sweet water we give thee to keep thee alive; 

But do what we may, thou canst not long thrive; 
For March is a storm}^ month we see 

For a fragile Butterfly like thee. 

0, that thou couldst live till the roses come, 
And the honey bees through the forests hum; 

I would open the window of thy retreat, 
And the dewey roses, soft and sweet, 

Thou couldst sip all day, and at night repose 

On the bosom of the fairest rose; 
And the balmy air to thee strength would blow, 

And thy faded wings would brighter grow. 



56 POEMS. 



If we should permit thee to fly out in the cold, 
Soon thy little form of delicate mould 

Would be chilled and blown by the rough, rude 
blast, 
And in death's embrace, thou wouldst soon be 



fast. 



Frail are thy wings so bruised and torn. 
In fluttering the paint has off them worn ; 

Thy poor little feet are weary and sore, 

And sadness hath pierced to thy bosom's core. 

Dear little pet, we breathe thee a sigh; 

We will love and shelter thee, till thou die; 
Then in some quiet spot, where green grasses wave. 

We would make for thee a little grave; 

And there write a line to thy memory: — 
No more in our window shalt thou be; 

Sweet be thy rest while here thou doth lie; 
Soft be thy slumber, sweet Butterfly! 

Bright hued insects shall over thee pass. 

And view the little mound covered with grass. 

May the birds o'er thy grave carol sad and low, 
And 'round it bright, sweet flowers grow. 

For in life's early morn thou hast passed away, 
And the dark mould covers thy form of clay; 

Like beautiful children who early die; — 
So fare thee well, little Butterfl3\ 



POEMS. 57 



THE OLD HAW TREE. 



One eve when 1 had not a care, 

When Nature all was bright and fair, 

I met my friend with golden hair, 
Beneath the old haw tree. 

His eyes — the bluest of the blue — 
And oh! that is a lovely hue; 

His smiles were sweet and winning too, 
Beneath the old haw tree. 

Our happiness seemed quite complete, 
While there upon a rustic seat 

We talked of pleasures pure and sweet 
Beneath the old haw tree. 

He plucked a half-blown rose that grew 
Near us, and said "Believe me true, 

By this 1 pledge my love to you, 
Beneath the old haw tree." 

He placed the rose within my hair, 
And said it looked so lovely there. 

And seemed our happiness to share. 
Beneath the old haw tree. 

For him I gathered violets blue, 

And told him that 1 loved him, too; 

That ever I'd to him prove true. 
Beneath the old haw tree. 



58 POEMS. 



He took my hand and there quite bold 
He placed a charming ring of gold; 

We thus our story sweetly told 
Beneath the old haw tree. 

The verdant sward before us spread, 

Each flowret blushed and bowed its head, 

As though aware of what we said 
Beneath the old haw tree. 

The moon shed down a silver beam. 
The stars, we counted in the stream 

While wrapped within a golden dream 
Beneath the old haw tree. 

On such a lovely eve as this; 

When all seemed near to perfect bliss. 
Who could refuse a parting kiss 

Beneath the old haw tree? 

The gentle zephyrs softly sigh, 

The nightingale's sweet song must die, 

When lovers whisper sad "good-bj^e" 
Beneath the old haw tree. 

0, flowers fair, j^ou cannot tell 
How many tears upon you fell. 

As tenderly we breathed "farewell" 
Beneath the old haw tree. 

(Written April, 1881, and dictated to cousin 
Clara Pefley.) 



POEMS. 59 



CI^OUDS. 



I'm silting by the open door 

Watching the clouds go by. 
In many shapes and forms they are, 
And darken all the sky. 

I can but sit and watch them pass, 
Yet know not where they go; 

.While each dark cloud doth tell to me 
A tale of dread and woe. 

The azure of the sky is hid 

By this great sable train ; 
I try to catch a gleam of Sun, 

But trials are in vain. 

The shadows that o'er-hang my life. 

And gather in my heart. 
Reflect the darkness of the clouds. 

While I these words impart! 

0, troubled spirit, saddened heart, 

May all these shadows flee, 
Like storm-clouds from the darkened sky 

To dwell no more with thee! 



60 POEMS. 



Why sorrow thou when storm-clouds rise? 

Why think of thine own pain? 
Remember that 'twill all be well; 

"There's sunshine after rain." 



A WINTER SCENE. 



An icy mantle covers all 
Within my sight to-day; 

The forest trees so strong and tall 
Their icy branches sway. 

The grasses are all crystalized, 
And shine like diamonds bright, 

When e'er a sunbeam strikes them, 
Or weaker rays of light. 

A glassy .tablet stretches out 
On all the earth in view; 

And when we wish to walk about, 
We scarcely so can do. 

Icicles sparkle as they cling 
With fondness to the eve; 

In rows of brilliant silvery spikes, 
A lovely chain they weave. 

(Written in the winter of 1888.) 



POEMS. 61 



A LETTER. 

(March, 1893.) 

Dear Friend; you proffered to write me; 

But from you I've received no epistle. 
Thanksgiving tiien was near at hand; 

And now the robins whistle. 
The blue-birds too, are here again 

To charm me with their song; 
How glad am I to welcome them; 

The winter's been so long. 

So long and cold and dull, dark hours 

Have flown with leaden wings; 
But now we dream of buds and flowers 

While sweetly the blue-bird sings. 
Many long dreary, weary hours, 

1 have counted in the space 
Between the writing of these lines, 

And when last 1 saw your face. 

I have longed to hear a word or two 

Of encouragement now and then, 
And have wished a missive I might view 

From your honor's gifted pen. 
I have written some verse this winter, 

Which has taken all spare time; 
And you with me can sympathize 

In blending reason and rhyme. 



62 POEMS. 



And have you been rhyming and chiming away, 

Courting the muse — the gift of your choice? 
Or have you been courting some bonnie "May" 

Who loves to list to your winning voice? 
However this be I may not know, 

But whene'er the day dawns bright and fair, 
To the young Bard's wedding I fain would go, 

And happines wish to the loving pair. 

If one, unworthy as your friend. 

Might breathe a wish or utter a prayer, 
'Twould be this: may your thoughts with heaven 
blend; 

May your heart keep true and free from care; 
May your soul be kept pure as the mountain snow; 

That your writtings to the world be given. 
And merit a wide fame here below; 

And a starry crown when you enter heaven. 

This silly production is meant for a letter. 

Addressed to the namesake of "Robert Burns." 
Sometime in the future I may write a better; 

For to be a good "poet," my soul truly yearns. 
May it please you sometimes to think kindly of her, 

Who once was your "teacher" gay and fickle; 
Who is ever your friend sincere and true. 

And humbly subscribes herself only — 

A NiCKELL. 



POEMS. 63 



A LETTER TO E— . L— . 



Elwood, dear Cousin: — 
Your letter at hand; 

Its contents well noted, 
lis pages well scanned. 

While you are in school 
Bravely try to excel; 

How much you have learned 
Old Time will soon tell. 

1 fancy your thoughts 

Dwell much on the lasses; 

There being so many 
In all of your classes. 

Now Elwood, please take 
The advice of a fool; 

Don't study "galology" 
While you'r in school! 

You spoke of ' 'May Jinkens 

A very nice girl ; 
No doubt but she'll soon 

Set your brain in a whirl. 



64 POEMS. 



We have been having 

So many mishaps: 
Our swine die of "cholera," 

Our poultry of "gaps." 

So much rain prevented 
Our hired man — Pete, 

From cutting his wood, 
And sowing his wheat. 

In conclusion would say: 

May your pathway be bright, 

And your sky be serene 

While a "State Normalite." 

Correct these mistakes. 
And pardon the rhyme; 

Remember 'tis from 
A silver "half-dime." 



TIS SAD TO PART. 



When of absent friends I'm thinking, 
And pondering o'er the past. 

My memory dwells upon a time. 
Too bright, too sweet to last! 



POEMS. 65 



My thoughts oft wander to a friend 

Who from me is far away; 
I seem to see his image now; 

It haunts me day by day. 

We met, (this candid youth and 1,) 
It seemed almost b}' chance: 

And as the hours and days sped by, 
Our friendship did enhance. 

His presence was to me a charm ; — 
So brilliant was his mind ; — 

His thoughts so pure and noble, too; 
And his heart so true and kind. 

The time we two, together spent 
In pleasant walks and plays, 

I never, never can forget; — 
These dear, delightful days! 

But a cloud came hovering o'er me, 
And with sadness filled my heart; 

For I knew the day was drawing near, 
When he and I must part. 

The parting day dawned bright and fair, 
The birds their sweetest sang; 

The choicest flowers perfumed the air; 
The morning bells like music rang. 

But beautj^ music, and perfume. 
Possessed no charm for me; 



66 POEMS. 



For though we were not parted yet, 
I knew we soon should be. 

I heard a step— ^a well known voice — 

A voice I loved to hear; 
I saw a pale, sweet, saddened face, — 

A tall form drawing near. 

"I've come to say good-bye," he said 

In tones so sad and low; 
His looks, his words gave token 

That it caused him pain to go. 

We've parted, perhaps never more 
In this wide world to meet; 

Yet I trust on heaven's blissful shore 
We may each other greet. 

Oh, what deep and sad emotion 
Comes thronging to the heart, 

When ties of fond devotion 
Are summoned thus to part. 
(Written in 1880.) 



IN MEMORY OF PERLEY C— . 

(Written in January, 1893.) 

The night winds moaned in the leafless trees; 

And in sympathy seemed sighing; 
While parents, brother and friends draw near 

The bed where a child was dying! 



POEMS. 67 



And a white winged angel floated down 
From her shining home in heaven, 

And bore in her loving arms away 
The spirit that God had given. 

Perley has 'changed his earthly home 

For another pure and fair; 
The pain he suffered while waiting here, 

Can never enter there. 
And the weary feet that eight summers 

Earth's pathes have trodden o'er, 
Are quietly, sweetly, resting now. 

And will tire never more. 

We stood by the snowey casket, 

And looked on the cold, still form. 
In which a few short days before 

Life's current had flowed warm. 
The face, from traces of pain now free. 

Seemed moulded of marble white; 
And the smiling blue eyes now were closed 

Forever from our sight, 

A pure white hearse was slowly drawn 

Over the pure white snow, 
Bearing a pure white casket 

To its resting place so low. 
The lifeless child in his pure white robe 

Within the casket lay ; 
The stainless soul had flitted from 

Its little house of clay. 



68 POEMS. 



0, Thou, who hast robbed the fireside 

Of one who was so dear, 
Wilt heal the wounded, bleeding hearts, 

And dry the mourner's tear. 
Blessed ones who die in childhood, 

With no sins to be forgiven; 
Ye are earth's flowers gathered 

To deck the throne of Heaven. 



BEAUTIFUL ICE GEMS. 



I arise this lovely morning. 

And 0, my heart beats glad — 
A deep thrill passes through my soul 

To. find the earth all clad 
In Nature's charming ice robe! 

0, beautiful the sight! 
Sad thought, that noon tide's warming rays 

Such loveliness may blight! 

The trees are decked in jewels. 

On which the sun shines bright. 
And every tiny ice-gem 

Sends out a ray of light. 
Each blade of grass is crystal ized 

By Nature's own firm hand! 
The cedar hedge is formed into 

A sparkling icy band! 



POEMS. 69 



Each spot of ground that looked so bare 

And dark on yestere'en, 
Is now a glassy tablet fair; 

A truly lovely scene. 
The wind doth sway the branches, 

And down the ice it hurls, 
To lay in scattered beauty. 

Like a broken string of pearls. 

The Hand that clothed so beautifull}^ 

In the space of one short night; 
The trees and grass- and shrubbery. 

As it. were, in diamonds bright, 
Hast power to (in the same short time) 

Dissolve it all in tears; 
Hast power to brighten all our hopes, 

Or darken all our fears. 

Each thing of beauty soon shall be 

Dissolved like snow in May; 
Each earthly joy, and cherished hope, 

Flee from us far away! 
Hopes, friendships, 'and sweet memories; 

Enjoy them while we may; 
For soon like sparkling ice gems. 

They all shall pass away! 



•r "I* 'r "J" 'T"T* "r "I' "I" T 'r T 'r T "I" T 'T'T* "1" '1" 



70 POEMS. 



SWEET FLOWERS. 



Bring fresh young flowers for the children 

To scatter in their play; 
Strew them along the rough, rude path, 
In which their feet must stray. 
For childhood hours, 
Like tender flowers 
But for a season stay. 

Bring roses for the blushing bride 

To cluster in her hair; 
To hold within her dainty hands; 
To scent the evening air. 

Let them chase the gloom 
From the bridal room, 
0, queen of flowers fair. 

Bring violets and lillies, 

And rosebuds snowey white, [dead 

To wreathe the mounds of the peaceful 
As you pass with footsteps light. 
Let them fragrance shed 
On their lowly bed. 
From dawn till dewy night. 






POEMS. 71 



MY DARLING. 



Sweet innocence, sweet innocence; 

1 hold iier in my arms; 
I gaze into her lovely face, 

And note her many charms. 
The darling little rosebud mouth. 

That I have kissed so oft; 
The tiny, dimpled, baby hands, 

So chabby, white and soft. 

I watch her every action. 

And penetrate her mind; 
I listen to the little voice 

That sounds so sweet and kind. 
She talks to mamma all day long, 

And does many questions ask, 
I find to answer all of them, 

Proves oft a weary task. 

But then I know her little mind 

Is active as can be; 
Her face is full of intellect, 

As one could wish to see. 
And she is so alf ectionate ; — 

Her heart so full of love — 
Pure, like the love of Angels 

Around the throne above. 



72 POEMS. 



Her kisses and caresses 

Possess a wondrous power; 
They strengthen as the dew-drop 

Freshens the drooping flower. 
Two summers only, have passed o'er 

My precious darling's head — 
She seems not near so old to me; 

So swift the time has sped, 

—1890. 



ONE LONELY BLEEDING HEART. 



(Written and dedicated to my Sister, after the death 
of her Husband, August 31, 1892.) 



•'Tis nearly twelve long years ago 

Since I visited the old home; Fsnow, 

It had tenantless been through storm and 

But now the spring had come. 
And the birds sang sweetly in the trees 

That shaded the soft green sward. 
From which peeped a flower here and there 

In the beautiful front yard. 

As by each bud and flower, 

With slackened step I'd pass, 
I stooped and softly parted 

A bunch of tall green grass. 



POEMS. 73 



It was there my lovely bleeding-hearts 
Had bloomed the year before; 

But tears were gathered in my eyes 
As 1 looked their branches o'er. 

For there, one little bleeding-heart 

Had blossomed all alone! 
From other flowers quite apart; 

It seemed to breathe a moan! 
No sunny ray could find it there; — 

It had no kindred tie. 
Faded, humble, and silent. 

Alone it must pine and die! 

I looked in silent sympathy 

On the face of the little flower; — 
A picture of humanity 

In sorrow's darkest hour. 
It seemed a living creature 

From life's gay throng apart; 
A soul oppressed by sadness; — 

A lonely bleeding heart. 

And now, thou lonely little flower, 
My thoughts return to thee. 

Thou seem'st a silent messenger 
To prophesy to me ; 

For I have lost the one most dear. 
By death's dread, cruel dart. 



74 POEMS. 



The earthly tie is severed, 

That bound us, heart to heart. 



Stricken with grief too deep for words, 

Alone 1 oft would be. 
To breathe a silent prayer to God, 

And think dear one of thee! 
For then thou seemst to linger near 

To sooth my throbbing breast; 
Thy spirit; — but thy lifeless form 

Lies peacefully at rest! 

I see the sacred, flower-wreathed mound 

'Neath the lofty dark green pine; 
And there the shadows playing 

"With the beautiful sunshine. 
And in the cold, still room beneath, 

Where sun-rays never stray, 
Lies sleeping my beloved one, 

Unmindful of decay! 

Yet sweetly sleep thou, sweetly sleep, 

Within thy dreamless bed: 
I know I cannot call thee back; — 

I know that thou art dead! 
And if bright spirits can look down 

From out the azure skies, 
I know that thou doth look on me 

With tender, loving eyes! 



POEMS. 75 



0, Father of the universe, 

When life for me is o'er, 
Wilt tbou unite our souls in heaven 

Where death scenes come no more? 
Together in that sunny land, 

Father, our footsteps lead, 
Through flowery pathes of love divine. 

Where hearts can never bleed! 

—1890. 



FADED FLOWERS. 



Open the box of faded flowers, 

And let me look within, 
On the dear little treasures hidden there 

Away from life's wild din. 

The first is a bunch of violets 
That were blue as the sky above; 

Presented by a little girl, 
A token of her love. 

They 'mind me of a dear one 

Whose life that very day 
The flowers were plucked, and given, 

Passed from us far away. 

The green sod opened to receive 
A sister to the dust: 



76 POEMS. 



Our hearts were full of sadness; 
Yet G-od is ever just. 

And these little sweet-faced violets — 

As often as I see — 
While thoughts go backward twelve long years 

This tale they te 1 to me. 

The next is a little blossom 

That grew in a western clime, 
Its petals were pure scarlet, 

When fresh and in its prime. 

And then a sweet moss rose-bud, 

The first our tree e'er bore; 
Green mossy coat, pink satin vest, 

Sweet-scented to the core. 

And this my sister sent me — 

A little pressed boquet, 
In a kind precious letter 

On my thirty-first birth-day. 

These faded petals once were part 

Of as fair and sweet a rose. 
As ever formed a subject 

For poetry or prose. 

And this brown, scentless, little spray. 

Perhaps you ne'er could know. 
Came from that summer land of flow'rs 

To this of sleet and snow: 



POEMS. 77 



A spray of orange blossoms, 

Fragrant and pure white; 
We've seen them deck the lovely biide, 

Her marriage vows to plight. 

Another, tiny, sweet boquet, 

From that sunny land of dream, 

Gathered from the verdant banks 
Of a bright little stream. 

And these, 1 half forgot to say, 
Are pansies, black and gold ; 

They're strangely charming; yet I trow 
They look a little bold. 

Next comes a wreath of bleedi)ig-hearts, 

I pressed them long ago; 
They make one think of sundered ties ; 

Of joy that's turned to woe. 

This from a tree that shadows 
The grave of a brother dear. 

Our dead friends are remembered. 
With many a sigh andjtear 

A friend presented these to me, 

That in my hand 1 hold; 
When baby girlie sitting there, 

Was just one, short day old: 

Two sweet white lillies, fresh and pure 
As the "lilly" by my side; 



78 POEMS. 



I pressed them in remembrance 
Of a moUaer's sweetest pride. 

Last are the white tube roses, 
That sweetest fragrance shed, 

When carried by the writer 

On the morn that she was wed. 



Now let me place you, one by one, 

Back safe in your retreat; 
Though faded now, ye once were bright, 

With odors rich and sweet. 

Friend, is there any thing on earth 
That hath such wondrous pow'r 

To make the heart grow tender. 
As a little faded flow'r? 



SOUNDS THAT I LOVE, 



I love the sound of the first spring rain 

As the sweet drops gently fall. 
And trickle down the window pane 

In streamlets clear and small. 
And the south wind sings. 

As the drops she flings 
To the ground — a soft sweet strain, 

This is music, the sweetest to me. 



POEMS. 79 



1 love the sound of the evening breeze 

As the forest leaves it stirs; 
As it sighs in the tops of the old pine trees, 

Or sings among the firs; 
And the dew-drops shake 

From the flow'rs that wake, 
In little pearly seas: 

These are the sounds that are sweet to me. 



SNOW-FLAKES. 



Snow-flakes are falling fast, 

Upon the deep white snow; 
Snow birds gaily sport; 1 trow 

They fear no winter blast. 

The cedar branches are bowed down 

With burdens, pure and soft; 
The pines bear snowy wreaths aloft, 

And the mountain wears its [snowy] crown. 



A WELCOME. 



Welcome friends and welcome strangers, 

To our humble call. 
Glad we are to-day to greet you — 

Teachers, parents, all. 



80 POEMS. 



May our coming here together 

Be for lasting good. 
May this be a pleasant meeting 

In the leafy wood. 

May our voices sweetly blendirrg, 

Drive away all care; 
May our prayers to Heaven ascending, 

Find a welcome there. 

— 1885. 



GATHERING CLOUDS. 



Again the sky is overcast 

With clouds of gray and white; 

Again the sun's bright face has passed 
Completely from our sight. 

And now the close, dark atmosphere 

Is laden with a chill; 
And every sound falls on the ear 

Like echoes loud and shrill. 



COME HOPE. 



Come Hope with bright, sweet flow'rs 
And charm away the gloom. 

That fills so many hours 

We spend in this dark room! 



POEMS. 81 



MY HOME. 



Around my home let sweet wild flowers grow, 

Nt'ar b}' a gentle streamlet flow 
'Neath a moss-grown bridge. In some green dell, 

Away from turmoil let me dwell. 

I would live where the myrtle and ivy twine, 
'Mid wild roses and sweet wood-bine; 

Ever list'ing to the wild bird and bee; 
Life thus would be a dream to me. 

— 1877. 



CLARA, WE MISS THEE. 



Dear Clara, we miss thee when morning's bright wino-s 

Are shedding their rosy light; 
We miss thee when evenino; her first shadow flino-s. 

Till it darkens far into the night. 

If we could but lift the mysterious veil 
That hides the fair realms from us still, 

We feel we could see thee in some flow'ry dale, 
Where spirit feet wander at will. 

We would fain call thee back to the old home again, 

But a silent voice seems to say: 
"She's resting so sweetly from labor and pain, 

0, call not the loved one away! " 



82 POEMS. 



EVA, GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN. 



Dear Eva, we know thou bast left us, 
Among the far unknown to dwell; 

But we lean on the strong arm of Jesus, 
And list to the words, "all is well." 

Thy spirit so long in its bondage. 
Hath broken its fetters in twain; 

And far in that beautiful city, 
We feel we shall meet thee again. 

The chair thou reclined on is vacant, 

And so it must ever remain; 
Eut thine image clings fast to our memory 

To live till we see thee again. 



FOR A FRIEND. 

"Onward and upward" ever 
May this your ' 'motto' ' be : 
Ascend the great hill of science ; 
Rest not till its summit you see. 

Beware of the Tempter, I pray. 
Ere it is forever too late; 
Robed then in the purest array, 
Roses of Truth and Love shall conveys 
You safe to the "Golden gate." 



POEMS. 83 



MY CHILDHOOD. 



Oh, how rosy and bright 

Were my childhood hours! 
When my young heart from sorrow 

And care was free. 
Through the meadows 1 rambled 

In search of wild flow'rs, 
And romped in the shade 

Of the old apple tree. 

How well 1 remember 

The dear old log-cabin, 
Where my childish tongue prattled 

In innocent glee. 
With my first words and songs 

All the hearts I would gladden, 
While sitting so snug 

On my grandfather's knee. 

In the summer we plaj^ed 

In sunshine and show'rs 
From morning till night — 

Brother, sister, and I ;j 
In the winter we spent 

Many gay, happy hours 
Forming snow into balls 

That we threw very sly. 



84 POEMS. 



How my thoughts love to dwell 
On the sweet scenes of childhood ; 

"When my heart was as light 
As the gentle breeze; 

And I still love to stroll 

Through the green, mossy wild-wood 

And hear the birds sing 

_ In the boughs of the trees. 

When my heart has grown sad 

From neglected duties; 
When all in this wild world 

Seems dark and so drear; 
Then my mind wanders back 

To old charms and beauties; 
And 1 long for my childhood, 

My childhood so dear. 

—1876. 



TRUE LOVE. 



There are many precious treasurer 

Sent to us from above; 
But the purest and the sweetest,, 

Is true and lasting love. 



POEMS. 85 



This love should dwell in every heart; 

But alas! it dwells in few. 
Oft the sacred vow is broken, 

Never to be made anew. 

When first true love doth blossom 

In the garden of the heart, 
Each leaf doth grace nnd innocence, 

And loveliness impart. 

The false in heart can never know 
The bliss true love doth bring; 

It dwells where winter winds ne'er blow; 
Tis ever gentle spring. 

The value of this lovely gem 

The faithful realize; 
'Tis wealth, 'tis strength, 'tis light, 'tis life. 

The grandest, noblest prize. 

When two fond hearts doth truly love, 

Naught this tie can sever, 
Each day 'twill firmer, sweeter grow; 

And bind those hearts forever. 

And though they both be still in death, 

And in the churchyard lie, 
Affection's flowers wreathe their graves. 

And bloom beyond the sky. 

—1878. 



POEMS. 



TRUE FRIENDSHIP. 



You may roamo 'er hills and valleys; 

You may traverse wood and lea: 
You may pass through streets and alleys; 

You may cross the dreary sea; 
But where e'er you chance to wander, 

You will find but very few, 
Whose friendship being tested, 

Will fail to prove untrue. 

You may live in wealth and splendor, 

And have all as you command; 
Your heart may grow warm and tender 

When you clasp the stranger's hand ; 
But what ever be your station. 

Let this your mind imbue; 
Never accept profile red friendship, 

Till first you know 'tis true. 

True friendship is a priceless gem. 

Whose worth can ne'er be told; 
With silver it will not compare. 

Nor with the purest gold. 
So when a friend you've tested. 

And find him to be true. 
Pray do not cast him from you 

To go in quest of new. 

—1880. 



POEMS. 87 



AMUSEMENTS. 



Amusements are of various kinds, 
To animate our hearts and minds; 

Our lives would be forlorn and sad, 
If we had naught to make us glad. 

This earth would be a desert drear, 
If we had no amusements here 

To cheer us on our lonely wa}^, 

When in the deepest gloom we stray. 

In the mild, blithsome months of spring, 
When glens and groves with music ring 

And sweet wild flowers scent the air 
We find amusement everywhere. 

When the golden sun, with warming ray. 
Bids ice and snow-flake pass away; 

When all nature's filled with beauty, 
To seek amusement seems a duty. 

In summer days so calm and bright, 
Amusements are our chief delight; 

We wander to some shady nook. 

Or watch the fish in sparkling brook. 

Yes, in the pleasant summer time 
Our games are merry and sublime; 

But of all amusements, this excells. 
To wander in the mossy dells. 



POEMS. 



When autumn winds begin to sigh, 
And birds to warmer regions fly, 

We gather tinted autumn leaves, 

And form them into charming wreaths. 

When the autumn breeze is soft and cool. 
We early rise and haste to school; 

And there we find enough to do, 
With plenty of amusement, too. 

When winter comes with rapid bound, 
An flings the snow-flakes to the ground, 

The shimmering ponds our feet entice, 
To skate upon the silvery ice. 

Gray winter sports are drawing near, 
0, then what joy 'twill be to hear 

The merry sleigh bells sweetl}'^ jingle, 
As with happy hearts we mingle. 

When Luna, with her silver light. 
Fills every heart with new delight, 

The young doth join the graceful dance 
Their many pleasures to enhance. 

There are many things we wish to say 
About amusements grand and gay; 

But as there's scarcity of rhyme, 
Will defer it till another time. 

— 1878. 



POEMS. 89 



TO AN UNKOWN FRIEND. 



Jo}^ and grief forever glide 
O'er this wide world, side by side: 
Hope and fear, o'er sea and land, 
Night and day, walk hand in hand. 

Sorrow, with her darkened brow, 
In many a home is dwelling now; 
Peace in her purest white array, 
Ere long shall bid care pass away. 

—1878. 



ONLY AN IVY LEAF. 



A maiden sits in her loneh' room. 

With sad repining heart; 
Her cheek has lost its crimson bloom; 

In mirth she takes no part. 

Wit hin her trembling little hand 

She hold s an open book ; 
From which she takes an ivy-leaf. 

And -casts a solemn look. 

Why does her ycmng heart swell with grief? 

Wh}' does she weep and sigh? 
It is only an ivy leaf, 

All faded, brown and dry! 



90 POEMS. 



Why does she love and cherish 
The leaf so worn and old? 

Why does she treasure and keep it, 
As though it were purest gold? 

Ah! many long months have flown 

Since that eventful day, 
When her lover left her all alone, 

To go his silent way. 

But ere he left her weeping. 
He gave her this small leaf, 

Saying, ' 'keep it until my return. 
My stay shall be but brief." 

She waited for his coming 
With anxious beating heart. 

But the cruel waves have sundered 
Those fond hearts wide apart. 



When from loved ones we've parted. 

We seem to find relief. 
When gazing on the parting gift. 

Though "only an ivy leaf." 

—1877. 



POEMS. 91 



DREAMING OF THE PAST. 



I am dreaming, fondly dreaming 

Of the happy days gone by; 
When the ground with snow was covered, 

And the winter's winds did sigh. 

How my heart leaped forth with pleasure. 
As the winter sports drew near: 

And the music of the sleigh-bells 
Was the sound I loved to hear. 

I am dreaming — ever dreaming 
Of the dear old times of yore; 

And it makes me sad and lonely. 
To think those days are o'er. 

Yes, those bright school-days are over, 
All our childish joys have flown; 

Oft in sorrow I repeat it — 

"0, how cold this world has grown! " 

1 am dreaming of the loved ones 
Who from earth have passed away; 

Yet we trust they are in heaven, 
In the angel's blest array. 

Oh! how sweet will be the meeting. 
When our work on earth is done; 

In that heavenly land of beauty, 

We shall dwell with God's dear Son. 



92 POEMS. 



There'll be joy, and peace, and gladness, 
When that day shall come at last; 

No more weeping, notnore- sighing, 
No more ^'■dreaming of thepas^." 

— 1876. 



LINEvS 

ON THE DEATH OF MATTIE STONE. 



Dear Mattie, thou hast passed away 
From earth's dark scenes of care, 

To that pure and celestial clime, 
To dwell forever there. 

We know that sickness, pain and grief 
Shall ne'er distress thee more; 

For thou hast joined that angel band 
Of loved ones gone before. 

We stood beside th}^ dying bed, 
And caught each word that fell 

From lips that now are still in death, 
While grief our hearts did swell. 

We'll ne'er forget thy last "farewell;" 
We'll ne'er forget thy parting kiss, 

We'll ne'er forget thy last request — 
To meet thee in a home of bliss. 



POEMS. 93 



As the precious flowers we so much love, 

Bloom but to droop and die, 
So thy poor life hast sped away. 

To bloom beyond the sky. 

We're swiftly passing, one by one, 

From this tempestuous sphere. 
Each day a lesson teaches us 

That all is fleeting here. 

And when our Father beckons us 

To cross death's chilling tide. 
We trust like thee in faith to die, 

And meet thee on the other side. 

May 5, 1881. 



TRUST IN GOD. 



When the soul is sad and burdened. 
And the heart is filled with grief, 

Trust in God our heavenly parent. 
He will give you s^eet relief. 

When your light is changed to darkness. 
When your bliss is changed to gloom, 

Look beyond this world of sorrow. 

Where sweet peace and pleasures bloom. 



91 POEMS. 



When your dearest friend deceives you, 
Whom you thought was kind and true, 

If you trust in Grod sincerely 
He will cheer and comfort you. 

When all other hopes have vanished, 

And you're sinking in dispair, 
Lift your heart to God, and trust him; 

He will hear your earnest prayer. 

Humbly ask to be forgiven 

If your folly gives you pain; 
He will point you to that haven. 

Where Faith, Hope and Love shall reign. 

When the cares of life are over. 

And we rest beneath the sod, 
Our last sleep will be more peaceful. 

If we've put our trust in God. 

July, 1878. 



STRIVE TO DO RIGHT. 



We should strive to do our duty 
When at home or when at school; 

Whether poor or whether wealthy, 
We should keep the golden rule. 



POEMS. 95 



We should comfort those in sorrow, 
We should lift them from despair, 

We should labor hard to soothe them, 
We should in in their conflicts share. 

We should never tell a falsehood; 

But should love to speak the truth; 
We should keep aloof from Satan, 

While in thorny paths of youth. 

We should not be rude or vaunting, 
But should strive to do our part; 

We should never use deception 
To break a true friend's heart. 



—1878. 



THE MAPLE. 



Beautiful Maple, queen of all trees, 

Whose leaves softly wave in the gentle breeze, 
The birds all carol their songs of praise. 

Among thy branches where gay squirrel plays. 

When all alone, I love to rove 

In the grand and quiet maple grove, 

Where the lovely trees their boughs all bend, 
To welcome their sad and lonely friend. 



96 POEMS. 



When the summer sun is shining, 
And the myrtle's tendrils twining, 

When the air is perfumed with the rose; 
In the maple's shade let me repose. 

— 1879. 



MERRY CHRISTMAS. 



Merry Christmas is coming, 
And what shall he bring? 

0, many sweet pleasures 
Around us he'll fling. 

Merry Christmas is coming, 

So glorious and grand. 
To spread mirth and music 

O'er ocean and land. 

Dark passions all will vanish, 
And dull visions all flee. 

When one and all are gathered 
Around the Christmas tree. 

We would fain portray the splendor 
And romance of this day; 

But feel it would be folly, 
As every one would say. 

"^ —1878. 



POEMS. 97 



DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 



The old year's drawing to a close — 
The sad, sweet, dear old year; 

We 'wait the comins: of the new 
With many a hope and fear. 

The old year's flitting fast awa}^ — 

Its life will soon be o'er! 
Those days of joy and sadness 

Have gone to come no more! 

Some have been dark and stormy. 

Some lovely and serene; 
But soon we'll watch the setting sun 

As the last closing scene. 

Let us glance back o'er the past year, 
And note wliat we have done ; 

The many failures we have made. 
The victories we've won. 

And when we read the record 

Of each succeeding year. 
For each kind action print a kiss, 

Each dark deed drop a tear. 

And when each New Year's morn we meet, 

Let us ask our Father dear. 
To bestow his blessing sweet 

Upon us another year. 

—1880. 



98 .POEMS. 



SCHOOL HAvS CLOSED. 



Our school has closed- — 1 hear no more 
Those shouts of childish glee, 

When I have said the word "recess," 
And for a time they're free. 

No more the darling little forms 
Are gathered round me now; 

No more the loving little lips 
Doth kiss my cheek and brow. 

No more in that dear school-room 

1 while away the hours; 
No more the children wreath my hair 

With dainty, fragrant flowers. 

Yes, children dear, both large and small. 
You've been very kind to me; 

And be assured 1 love you all. 
So let us happy be. 

What e'er our task be to perform 
We'll bravely strive to win; 

For they will never reach the top 
Who faint ere they begin. 

With joy and grief blent in my heart. 

I bid you all adieu: 
Ma}^ Heaven smooth your pathways 

And with them flowers strew. 

—1878. 



POEMS. 99 



SWEET, SAD MUSIC. 



The music has in it a wail 

That thrills, while it saddens my heart; 
It seems to tell me a tale. 

In which I have pla_yed a part. 

A stor}^ of love and of woe, 

Intermingled with joy and with pain; 
Sweet music, sad and low — 

Play it for me over again. 

It brings to me other days. 

Days that have long gone by; 
It sweet, loving words to my soul conveys. 

While my heart gives an inward cry. 



ODE TO A STREAMLET. 



Flow on, thou little river, 
Gush on and murmur still; 

Flow on in placid beauty, 
Thou happy little rill. 

Flow on, from morn till noon-day, 
And then from noon till night; 

Flow on, from night till morn again, 
Upon thee sheds her light. 



100 POEMS. 



Flow on, thou dancing little stream, 

With music soft and low; 
Thy cooling drops are carried on 

Where none can tell, 1 know. 

Flow on, thou tiny rivulet; 

How sweet the laughing sound. 
Kissing the smooth, white pebbles, 

With an ever onward bound. 

The wind phiys soft and swelling 
chords 
To blend with th}^ sweet strain: 
The birds from trees, come fluttering 
down 
To catch the soft refrain. 

Flow on, flow on, thou merry rill, 
We would not check thy speed; 

Haste thee to join thy sister 
And a deeper streamlet feed. 

Flow on, thy gushing waters 

Are soothing to the soul ; 
Thou dost entreat the thirsty 

To spurn the firefly bowl. 

Flow on, the flowers upon thy banks 
Are charmed the whole day long; 

They gaze upon thy sparkling face. 
And listen to thy song. 



POEMS. 101 



They cast their fragrance on the 
breeze 
To curry to thy bed, 
And when night shuts you from their 
sight, 
Each flowret bows its head. 

Flow on, while happy children pla}' 

Upon thy mossy brink; 
While birds and butterflies descend 

To claim a cooling drink. 

Flow on, thou dainty river, flow, 

A noble lesson teach; 
To weary hearts who faint and stop; 

The prize is within reach. 

if only they will persevere 

In work thej find to do, 
They'll reach their goal with happy 
hearts 

'Neath heavens clear and blue. 

Flow on, thou lovely, limped stream; 

The stars that shine at night 
Doth see their own reflection in 

Thy waters clear and bright. 

Flow on, through countless ages. 
And lives make happy still; 

Flow on, flow on, forever, 
Thou merry, little rill. 



102 POEMS. 



TO A SISTER POET. 



Charlotte, thy soul was beautiful, 

Thine heart was pure and true; 
Though fifty years have passed away 

Since thy lips bade adieu 
To earthly friends, and flowers and trees — 

To murmuring streams and humming bees, 
To sweet-voiced birds, sweet scented breeze — 

All that thou lovedst so well : 
Before mine eyes had oped on earth 

Had rung thy funeral knell. 

And yet, I open the old book. 

That lays beside me now. 
And linger o'er thy noble thoughts, 

That lived and breathed when thou 
Wast but a blooming maid. 

And through green wood-lands strayed. 
Or moss-grown, flowery glade. 

They shall verdant live in my memory, 
Sweet poet. Nature's own dear child — 

Thy thoughts live after thee. 



^A \V sl> 



POEMS. 103 



HER ROvSY BOWER. 



She reclined on a bed of roses, 

In the lovliest of bowers. 
The velvet lawn before her spread, 

Decked o'er with many flowers, 
Whose sweet breath scented all the air 

Through the bright summer hours. 
Golden raj's of sun-light stole 

Softly through the leaf-clad vines — 
Threw shadows on the soft green turf, — 

Of ivy and wood- bines. 

And murmuring sounds of music 

Came from the little stream. 
That wound its way around the hill, 

Kissing each bright sunbeam, 
And the pure white pebbles underneath 

That through its waters gleam. 
The leaves all gently trembled 

In the soft balmy breeze, 
And the wild birds sweetly carroled 

In the tall linden trees. 



f^ ^ f/fj 



104 POEMS. 



A DEATH-BED SCENE. 



'Twas mid-da}^ and the summer snu 

Shown beautifully bright; 
A cloudless sky was over all— 

The lillies pure and white, 
Drooped on their stems as if to shut 

Forever from their sight 
The picture of that death-bed scene. 

The wasted form of one so dear 

Lay on a restless bed ; 
Now twitched his pallid face with pain, 

Or turned his weary head; — 
Another hour of suffering ere 

He's numbered with the dead; 
0, sad, that death-bed scene! 



THE RESURRECTION OF THE 
FLOWERS. 

(a parody.) 

The joyous days of spring are come. 

The gladdest of the year; 
When murmuring sounds of music fall 

Sweet on the poet's ear. 
The wild flowers in profussion 

Are blooming in the dells, 



POEMS. 105 



And dancing in the sunlight, 

The brooklet's music swells. 
The robin and the wren have come 

To charm the hours away; 
We listen to their melodies 

Through all the bright spring-day. 

Where are the pure white wreaths of snow, 

That garnished all the hills? 
That fondly clung to bush and tree, 

And flecked the laughing rills? 
The sun has kissed and melted 

Each snow-flake to a tear. 
The trembling drops sink in the earth 

Without a shade of fear. 
They penetrate the darksome mould, 

And feed the springs anew; 
Grown tired of being ornaments, 

Now useful they've grown, too. 

The school boy's sled and skates now lay 

In idleness; while he 
Is seeking other games and joys, — 

They're but a memor}'. 
And the snow-balls that he loved so well, 

To quickly form and throw, 
Have passed into oblivion 

Amid the sun's brio;ht crjow. 



106 POEMS. 



The sleighbell's music, too, is hushed, 

That rang out sweet and clear 
Upon the still and frosty air — 

Sweet sounds of joy and cheer. 

And then when comes the rainy day, 

As still such days will come, — 
To call life- germs of grass and flowers 

From out their winter home; 
When the sound of dropping rain is heard 

Through all the live long day, 
And trinkling down from off the eaves 

They pass the time away. 
The south wind fans the sleeping buds 

Whose fragrance he shall bear 
O'er field and mountain, hill and vale, 

Through woodlands green and fair. 

Now memory with her busy hands 

Weaves me a wreath of flowers: 
She calls back the spring time of life — 

My happy childhood hours. 
1 ramble once again at will, 

Without a thought of care. 
From thorns, I pluck the sweet wild rose 

And twine it in my hair. 
Welcome again the joyous spring 

That resurrects the flowers. 
That brings the wild birds back again 

And recalls childhood hours. 



POEMS. 107 



THE FALL OF THF DUDE. 

(a parody.) 

1 saw a youDg dude, who was without food, 

Bedecked in his tightest array. 
An ashy-like pallor crept over his cheek ; 

For his cash had ail dwindled away. 
But with dudish devotion he laid his small heart 

At the feet of a wealthy 3"oung girl. 
Hope quickened his pulses, and reddened his brow. 

And set his weak brain in a whirl; 
But I saw when his hope was displaced b}^ despair, . 

The hope that elivened him so — 
The castles that he had built high in the air 

Were tumbled to ruins below; 
For when he had ventured to ask of the maid — 

So winning, so rich and so fair — [night — 

The question that might change to day all his 

His heart and his fortune (?) to share — 
There had whispered a voice — 

•Twas the voice of his sweet: — 
'4 never, no never 

Can be thy help-meet." 






108 POEMS. 



TO JAMES G. PERCIVAL, 



Thou art a poet truly gifted, who 
In language beautifully clear and sweet, 
The true poetic spirit hath expressed; 
When the heart is filled to overflowing. 
With love too deep for utterance; or when 
The soul is sad or filled with extacies, 
And yearnings seemingly unfathomal)le, 
Thou hast correctly said, and wisely, too: 
" 'Tis not the union of returning sounds, 
■ Nor all the pleasing artifice of rhyme. 
And quantity, and accent that can give 
This all pervading spirit to the ear, 
Or blend it with the movings of the soul. 
'Tis a mysterious feeling that combines 
Man with the world around him in a chain. 
Woven of flowers, and dipped in sweetness till 
He taste the high communion of his thoughts." 
How often have the feelings thou hast here 
Portrayed, thrilled through me even when a child, 
Until my spirit, leaning on a bed 
Of flowers iavisible, but soft and sweet, 
And all my senses lulled by Heavenly song, 
Seemed wafted into higher, fairer realms: 
Yet have been ever powerless to explain 
This feeling to my friends, until they thought 
Me strange or out of reason ; one who knew 



POEMS. 109 



Not her own mind, but ever more indulged 

In day dreams, whicli might ne'er bring sustenance, 

Or spirit food, or content to the mind. 

The nature of the true born poet that 

Pervaded thy whole being years ago, 

And soothed thy soul with music, nature's own: 

The gentle gale, as through the trees it swept, 

Some laughing streamlet's rippling melod}', 

Or the soft warble of some sweet wild bird. 

These have I known from early childhood up; 

Yet being quite unable to describe, 

Now bless the sublime pict'ire thou hast drawn 

Of the poet's longings, and communion 

With wild nature, and his dreams so sweet 

That from his own rude sphere doth carry him 

To one supernal, where the muses play 

Sweet melodies unto his willino- ear. 

.o 

Thy praise which I to paper here transfer. 

Is but reflection faint of reverence, 

That stirs my soul for one so great and good. 



BEAUTIFUL SNOW. 



Beautiful, pure, white, downy snow 
Over the fields thy mantle throw. 

Down to the ground, 
With a fluttering bound. 

Comes the soft white snow. 



110 POEMS. 



The ice on the lake, and rubers wide, 
Cover over in all thy pride. 

Down to the ground 
Without a sound, 

Falls the flakey snow. 

Cap the mountains and wreathe the hills, 
Kiss in their beauty the laughing rills. 

Powder the leas, 

And the forest trees, 

Pure white feathery snow. 



THE WORKS OF GOD. 



The roses, fresh with morning dew, 

The lillies frail and fair. 
The violets clothed in heaven's blue, 

Sweet-scented pinks so rare. 
The morning-glories that enfold 

Their beauties to the sun. 
Were spoke into existence 

By an Infinite One. 

The sunny mead where blossom sweet 
Wild flowers bright and gay, 

The moss-grown hills and rocky cliffs, 
The ocean's crystal spray, 

The brooklet's dancing onward bound, 



POEMS. Ill 



The pale moon's silver light, 
The Sun within his daily round- 
All tell us of His mioht. 



GOING TO CHURCH IN THE 
SLBIGH. 



There once was a miller, 

I'll not tell his name, 
Who possessed a good wife, 

And two sons, "just the same. 

One very cold evening 
When sleighing was fine, 

He hitched up old "gray," 
And caught up the line. 

"Now Ellen," said he, 
"We'll all go to meeting. 

If in this small sleigh. 

We can find a safe seating." 

So he drove his sleigh up 

To the Quaker Church door; 

And found the house crowded 
From ceiling to floor. 

So boldly he then pressed 
His way to the stand, 



112 POEMS. 



When lo! a fat preacher 
Took hold of his hand, 

Saying, "brother come into 

The pulpit and see, 
What great things the Lord 

Can accomplish for thee." 

So the pulpit he entered, 
With preacherl}^ grace. 

And there looked the audience 
Square in the face. 

Then crossed his gum boots 

As much as to sa}^: 
"I'm up in the pulpit, 

G-et out of my way." 



CHESTER." 



Dear little Chester, 

(A brother of Lester,) 
Is a bright little fellow, 

Just fourteen months old; 
And black are his eyes. 

As midnight, when the skies 
No moon and no stars 

In her bosom doth hold. 



POEMS. 113 



He's a sweet little bo}'; 

Though just a bit coy. 
He knows who his friends are, 

And who are his foes. 
He long has been walking, 

And now he is talking; 
While many a wise thought 

Through his little head goes. 

Youll ne'er think of self 

When with this little elf; 
Because you'll be always 

Just thinking of hina» 
His bosom ne'er sighs, 

But sometimes his eyes 
With silvery tear-drops 

Are ftdl to the brim. 



RUTH. 



Little Kuth is a bab}' 

In our neighborhood, 
Whose looks are so winsome, 

Whose ways are so good, 1 
That in her sweet presence 

Your heart she will charm, 
Without in the least ever 

Meaning 3'ou harm. 



114 POEMS. 



Thrice blessed the home of 

This baby must be, 
To have such a treasure 

To care for as she. 
May few be the troubles 

Our darling to meet 
And smooth be the pathway 

To press her fair feet. 



*-WHY? 



0, why do pain and sickness wreck 
These weary frames of ours? — 

Exhausting all our vital strength, 
And all our mental powers? 

Why should we labor always? 

Why should we climb the hill, 
When rest is so much sweeter 

If we are tired or ill? 

Why do temptations linger 
To lure us from the right? — 

When we would keep our temples clean 
And spirits pure and white? 



POEMS, 115 



Why do sad disappointments come 
Our brightest hopes to steal? — 

When the crashed heart and wounded soul 
May never, never heal? 

Why are we vexed and taunted, 

Mocked at and ignored, 
By those whose brains are fewer 

Than seeds in an empty gourd? 

Why do our cares and sorrows 

Consume our peace and time? 
Why are we made ridiculous 

When we would be sublime? 

Why do our friends forsake us 
When they have grown so dear? 

Why do our hearts gvoYi fainter 
With each succeeding year? 

Why do Death's icy fingers 
Touch those we love, so soon? 

Why are the sweetest flowers 
Withered and dead at noon? 



One answer to this may be given: 
The heavier the cross we bear. 

The sweeter rest we'll have in heaven- 
The brighter crowns we'll wear. 
(Nov. 13, 1897.) 



116 POEMS. 



NOVEMBER WINDS. 



November winds blow loudly 
About our cottage home; 

The summer birds have left us, 
The bees have sought their comb. 

The lovely leaves of autumn, 
That used to deck the bough, 

In all their brightest colors. 
Are lying lowly now. 

The meadow's hues are somber — 
No longer bright with flow'rs — 

Where children's happy voices 
Were heard in summer hours. 

The merry streamlet's laughter, 
Some of its music's lost; 

It's bid farewell to summer, 
And thinks of coming frost. 

The shorn rose-bush creaks wildly 
Against the window pane: 

Its lovely green and crimson, 
When shall it wear again? 

(1897.) 



POEMS. 117 



MOTHER IS GONE. 



1 hear the sad refrain 

Whispered in every breeze, 

That waves the dying grass, 
Or stirs the forest trees: — 
Mother is gone— is gone! 

The cricket's lonely chirp, 

The south-bound bird's farewell- 
Thesame sad words repeat; 

The same strange tale they tell :- 
Mother is gone — is gone! 

I wander through the home 
In which she used to dwell — 

Her empty chair and corner 
Cast over me a spell. 

Since she is gone — is gone! 

The autumn winds that wail 

In sympathy with me, 
The Sabbath church bell's call, 

Say : can it — can it be — 

That mother's gone—is gone! 

And will she ne'er come back — 
As months and years pass o'er? 



118 POEMS. 



Will no word ever reach us, 

From that far unknown shore — 
Where she is gone — is gone? 

Darkl}^ the long days dawn, 
To us, who still must weep; 

For in the grave she's sleeping 
Her last, long, dreamless sleep. 
Yes; mother's gone— is gone! 

Yet one bright star still shines, 
And penetrates the gloom : — 

The blessed star of hope; — 
We see beyond the tomb, 

Where mother's gone — is gone. 

There in the fair, sweet land 

Where mists are cleared away 
Some day we'll clasp her hand — 
No more — no more to say: 
"Mother is gone — is gone." 

(Sept., 1899.) 



UNFINISHED. 



Unfinished is the story — 

'Twas to be my darling's pride: 
And the incompleted poem ; — 

'Twas her last before she died. 



POEMS. ii«) 



The doily she was "workhig"' 

For me in white and red 
Can never, now, be finished; 

Since my darling girl is dead. 

Her school-work, loved so dearly. 
Must always remain the same: 

Yet m}' darling was ambitions, 
And wished to win a name. 

She was mounting swift the ladder; 

But before she reached the top. 
Death, with stern, dark visage, 

Bade ni}' darling one to stop. 

Unfinished was the song she breathed 
Thro' lips grown pale in death, 

While the sweet voice was strangely weak. 
And shorter grew each breath. 

Then she closed her sweet blue eyes 

In obedience to His will; 
But the work she left unfinished, 

Must be unfinished still. 

A bitter thonght comes to us: 
That she died before her time; 

But we cannot penetrate the veil. 
Hiding mysteries sublime. 
(March, ]900.) 



120 POEMS. 



MOTHER'S OLD ARM-CHAIR. 



The softest cushions, silken lined, 

The costliest seat, one e'er could find — 
To me doth not compare 
To this one, plain, and worn with age: 
1 read of it on memory's page, 
And yet 1 see it there. 
With it my earliest joys were blent; 
'Twas there, 1 sat and sang content. 
In mother's old arm-chair. 

'Twas there she rocked her babes to sleep, 
(While night winds would their vigils keep, 
Or fan her brow of care ;) 
And when she'd lain them side by side, 
Safe in their beds — a mother's pride — 
A picture passing fair — 
Her hands the needle then would pi}- — 
Still seated as the hours went by 
Within her old arm-chair. 

Sister and 1 rocked side by side 

In this old chair — our childish pride — 
Each other's joy to share. 
Soft pillows to its back were pressed 
Where brother's w^eary head did rest 
Amid jet curling hair. 



OEMS. 121 



Did death's dark visions fill his mind, 
While his tired body thus reclined 
111 mother's old arm-chair? 

In after years, when life was sweet: 

Blue sky above, flowers neath m}- feet - 
Hope's promises not rare — 
When roses bright with heaven's dew — 
And sweet, wild violets, meek and blue 
Pcented the summer air — 
"Twas there with love, serenely blest, 
1 sang my own sweet child to rest 
In mother's old arm-chair. 

When mothers weary, stricken frame, 
On which disease had made its claim — 
Tr3^ing indeed to bear — 
"Twas here she sat close by the door; 
Here-in we drew her oer the floor, 
Or into open air. 
Her earthl}' trials now are fled; 

No more she sits with pillowed head 
Within her old arm-chair! 

Then, when my darling child grew ill, 
"Twas here she fain would linger still, 
Till fever's blight did dare 

To lay her form upon the bed. 

Where soon we found her cold and dead 



122 POEMS. 



A blossom sweet and fair! 
They're gone! and 1 must ever weep! 
Still, till I join them, 1 shall keep 
My mother's old arm-chair! 
(March, 1900.) 



HAVE YE SEEN HER? 



Tell me, ye winds that lisp 

Around our cottage home; — 
Before ye came to visit us, 

Where were ye wont to roam? 

Have ye been to some stranger land — 

Immortal in its mien? 
Then tell me of the wonders there. 

That ye have lately seen. 

Say; did ye see my darling, 

Whom I have mourned as lost? 

And was she still so sweet and fair — 
Amid the heavenly host? 

AYas she with other friends of ours, 
AVho before liave crossed the bar? 

Or in some bright, sweet field of flowers 
Alone had wandered far? 



P()E\TS. 12H 



And did she miss us greatly? — 

0, tell me this, I prtiy: — 
Is her dear love for lis the stime 

As when she went away? 

The long, dark days pass wearily. 

Since last I saw her face, 
And pressed her to my throbbing he^\rt: 

Slowly they move apace — 

So lone, so drearily they pass! 

Say, have 3'e fanned her brow? 
Then bid her come to me awhile; 

I'm waiting for her now! 

0, tell me, winds of heaven. 

That 'round me moan and sigh; — 

Have ye beheld my darling? — 
An angel in the sky? 

(March, 1900.) 



TIS SWEET TO DIE 



When earth, with its bright robe of flowers, 
And trees with foliaoe oreen — 

Its sparkling streams and hillsides fair, 
With mossv vales between — 



124 POEMS. 



Its zephj^rs, fraught with odors sweet, 

Its many colored butterflies, 
And birds whose melodies might vie 

With those of angels in the skies; 
When Nature's gifts have lost their charm, 

To the hot, tear-dimmed eye — 
Her voice once sweet, become a dirge, 

Then it is sweet to die! 

When earth's cold clods have hidden all 

Most pleasing to our sight; — 
When Hope's bright star has vanished, 

Whose rays illumed our night; 
When the sweetest voice we ever heard 

Is stilled before its time, 
And we strain our weary ear to catch 

One echo of its chime; — 
When the torn heart-strings, trembling 

And crushed and bleeding lie; 
When every dny is night to us, 

'Tis sweet, indeed to die! 

When the ship we once took pride in 

Reels on the- sea of grief, — 
And nothing but oblivion 

Can give the soul relief; 
Rest wooes the worn-out vessel; 

The spirit longs to soar — 



POEMS. 125 



And clasp ill heavenl}' atmosphere 

Its cherished one of yore! 
Thro' faith, we see tlie crystal streams, 

And flowers beyond the sky, 
Where kindred spirits part no more! 

'Tis sweet, so sweet to die! 

(March, 1900.) 



JET. 



Dear, dear old friend, thou art sleeping 
In thy once proud hunting ground; 

But all is dark and silent there — 
With not a single sound 
To mar thy dream. 

The summer's scorching sunbeams, 

The winter's raging blast. 
Cannot disturb thee where thou art; 

Thy troubles all are past — 
Down Life's dark stream. 

Yet, we feel the tie of friendship 
Has been rudely rent in twain; 

We long for thy protection ; 
Still we must long in vain — 
Since thou art dead. 



126 POEMS. 



My heart is sad and heavy, 
M}^ spirit grieved and sore; 

1 hear the bark of other dogs; 
But thine 1 hear no more, — 
Nor thy soft tread. 

Those kind (iark e^^es can never more 

Look placidly in mine; 
Nor can 1 stroke the jet black coat — 

So soft and silky fine: 
'Twas once tby pride. 

If I could raise a monument 
To mark thy resting place, 

I'd write on it an epiteph 
Time never could efface; — 
'T would there abide: — 

Here lies our noble hearted dog — 
Our brave, true, faithful "Jet!" 

His daring deeds and steadfast love 
We never shall forget! 
Nor half his worth! 

His courage and fidelit}- 

In memory's left behind: — 
Another friend so kind and true 
We never more shall find 
In all the earth!* 

(September, 1896.) 



POEMS. 127 



THE LONG AND SHORT OF IT 



In a village 

You must know-- you must know — 
Lived a widow: 

It is so — it is so. 
And two bachelors living near 
Did tins widow most revere : [beau. 

Each one wished to be her beau — be her 

But while one was 

Low and fat— -low and fat. 
And oft wore a [hat; 

Broad brimmed hat — broad brimmed 
The other, it is said 
Was taller by a head ; 
Tho" quite lean and all of that — all of that. 

So she thought she'd 

Choose between — choose between, 
While she thought them 

Both so green — both so green. 
And she vowed that she would ask 
Each of them to do a task: [mean? 

Do you think that it was mean — it was 

As the snow lay 

Thick and hard — thick and hard 
In the widow's 

Big front yard — big front yard, 



128 POEMS. 



She said one morn that they 

Might clean her snow away; [hard. 

She knew the task was hard — task was 

So a shovel 

Each she gave — each she gave, 
Telling them to 

Both be brave — -both be brave. 
And the one who first got through, 
She would marry him she knew; [slave. 

He should be her willing slave — willing 

So they shoveled 

Fast away — fast away — 
Not a moment 

To delay — to delay; 
Then just to complete the rhyme, 
They both finished at one time — [say. 

And they knew not what to say — what to 
(Winter of 1898.) 



FIGHT FOR YOUR FREEDOM. 



[parody on ''PSALM OF LIFE/'] 

Gold bugs tell us in sad numbers. 
That free silver's but a dream ; 

That our patriotism slumbers; 

And things are not what they seem. 



POEMS. 129 



But they know we re all in earnest; 

Silver hath not reached its goal; 
In the not far distant future 

We can see the dollars roll. 

Not all Wall Street, nor all England 
Can divert us from our way; 

But we'll act, that each tomorrow, 
Find us firmer than today. 

Money's short, and time is fleeting; 

Yet our hearts are stout and brave: 
Still, like campaign drums, their beating 

Marches to the tyrant's grave. 

When the farmer sells his cattle, 

After Brj'an wins the strife, 
He can hear the silver rattle, 

And divide it with his wife. 

Trust no single sttuidard longer; 

Ltt the "gold bug"' bury his dead: 
We will fight with courage stronger — 

Heart wMtliin and God o'er head. 

Lives of some men oft remind u*, 
We don't want them in the chair; 

But we'll breathe the breath of freedom 
When we've placed our hero tliere. 



130 POEMS. 



,He will regulfite the turitT 

And the money system too ; 
No more bonds will then be issued — 
Wo'n't the bankers all feel blue? 

Let us then, be up and working 
For our leader, true and bold: — 

Crush beneath our feet the thorn crown; 
Bear no more the cross of gold! 

--1896. 

(Declaimed by Faith on the occasion of Mr. Foley's 
speaking at Whites ville,) 



THE VALENTINE. 



In a box of keepsakes, hidden, 

From curious eyes away, . 
In an old-time trunk she found — 

As there 'twere meant to stay — 
A dainty little valentine, 

That looked still fresh and sweet: 
Then the heavy curtains parted, 

And the past lay all complete: — 
She saw herself a girl again — 

Her hero by her side — 
There love and trust fought bravely 

With selfishness and pride. 

, ■ —1898. 



POEMS. 131 



AUTUMN AND DEATH. 



(••We all do fade as the leaf." Bible.) 



The leaves are falling, falling 

From the maples at our door; 
The wind is calling, calling 

Them to sleep — forever more! 
Down to the ground they fly — 

For aye to dreamless lie, 
As we shall by and by, 

When we lay us down to die! 

The trees are sighing, sighing [fal 

As they see their bright leaves 
The birds are flying — flying — 

Far beyond our faint recall: 
They seek a sweet retreat 

From winter's cold and sleet, 
As we shall by and by, 

When we lay us down to die. 

The rain sings sweetly — sweetly — 
To the leaves — a farewell strain- 
As she tucks them neatl}^ — neatly. 
In their couches to remain. 



132 POEMS. 



And moulder back to dust — 
As leaves and flowers must — 

And we shall by and b}' 

When we lay us down to die. 

The morn dawns cheerless, cheerless, 

In the gray November sky; 
Yet our hearts are fearless, fearless 

As sweet autumn's going by; 
For summer's bloom must go — 

And be covered up with snow, 
As we shall by and by 

When we lay us down to die! 

The brook goes sobbing — sobbing — 

To the ocean's cold embrace. 
While its heart is throbbing— throb- 
bing — [place: 

With the change that's takinsj 
Its music shall be stilled, 

And its smillrng face be chilled. 
As ours shall by and by 

When we lay us down to die! 
(November, 1898.) 



(US 



POEMS. 133 



SUMMER'S CHARMS. 



0, beautiful is summer, 

With tiie green grass all around — 

As we listen to the raindrops 

Trickling slowly to the ground — 

With a low, sad music, that is sweet to hear, 

The wild bird's sweet, soft melody 

Floats out upon the breeze: 

He is happy in his leafy home 

Among the forest trees. 

0, beautiful is summer, 

When the golden sun- rays gleam 

Through the branches of the maple. 

As they dance ui)on the stream 

With the shadows to the music of the rill; 

And the little pebbles smile. 

So contented all the while, 

As the water rushes o'er them 

Wildly down the hill. 

0, beautiful is summer, 

When the wild flowers bloom so free: 

They lift their lovely faces, 

As they speak to you and me, 

A language that we plainly understand: 



13i POEMS. 



The}' tell us that the summer days 
Are flying very fast — 
That their beauty and their fragrance 
Will be burried in the past. 

0, beautiful is summer, 

When we breathe the south wind's balm; 

And gaze up in the deep blue sk}', 

Thro' realms so clear and calm; 

We can almost see the an<;els swing 

The pearly gates ajar; 

While from azure depths afar, 

We can almost hear 

The spirit songs they sing. 

-1898. 



IN MEMORY OF A NEPHEW. 



The brightest and the sweetest flowers 
Blossom but to fade and die; 
Thus dear Aaron, thou hast left us, 
Neath the soft, green sward to lie! 
But God we know, hath chosen thee, 
Thro' His infinite love; — 
Plucked thee, as a flower from earth 
To twine in his wreath above. 



POEMS. l?>o 



We deeph' mourn thy loss, dear child: 

Thy memory we adore; 

But O! we would not call tliee hack; 

Thou art only oone before. 

Sadly, humbly, we resign thee 

To our Father's tender care — 

To abide amoug His angels 

In that home so bright and fair. 

Tlioust paid the debt, all living owe; 

Why sorrow- then, poor heart? 

Sweet, sweet, 'twill be to meet again, 

Altho" 'twas sad to part. 

We seem sometimes to see thy form. 

Robed in pure, snowey white: 

We think of thee at morn and eve, 

We dream of thee at night. 

Teach us, dear Father, day by day, 
To love and serve thee more; 
And when our spirits pass awa}^ 
Unto the golden shore, 
0, may we clasp our loved and. lost 
Of the sweet, sad long ago, — 
With them to live in that blest clime 
Where none can sorrow^ know. 
(Februarv, 17, 1887.) 



136 TOEMS. 



AUTUMN^S REIGN 



September's mild, sweet days are past— 
Her breezes, fraught with scent of flowers; 
Her azure slvv, with fleecy clouds o'er cast; 
Her life reviving showers. 
0, beauteous days, that speedeth by, 
My hcMrt at parting:, breathes a sigh! 
The angels to thy winds have given 
A sacred right to speak of heaven! 

October now is reigning queen: 

With Natnre's paints, both day and night 

She's changing leaves from shades of green 

To hues of red and gold so bri'>ht. 

Rich harvests, she doth bring a train 

Of apples, pumpkins, nuts and grain. 

Her wealth nnd splendor, we adore; 

Her sighing winds, we love still more. 

November next, shall claim his turn: 
Around us then our cloaks we'll wrap; 
We'll stir our fires and make them burn; 
For cold, bleak winds our doors will tap; 
He'll whirl the pure, white snow in space. 
Until he finds a resting place. 
His blasts are chill, his woods are bare. 
Yet in his sports we love to share. 



■1887 



POEMS. 18/ 



ROSEvS. 



Dear roses, bloom for me again 

As in the days gone by: 
1 long to be as I was tiien, 

Sweet roses, tell me why. 

To me you are the sweetest flowers 
That in Gods kingdom grow. 

1 love you just as well to day, 
As in the long ago. 

In childhood's hours, 1 loved to play 

Among your sisters fair; 
They talked to me in such a wa}', 

1 never dreamed of cure. 

Each time their leaves the zephyrs 
fanned, 

They'd whisper words so sweet — 
Of a future bright and grand. 

With happiness complete. 

A cloudless sky before me spread; 

My friends were true and kind; 
I had not learned the world's deceit. 

Nor traced it in mv mind. 



138 POEMS. 



My pure, young heart had tasted not 

Life's bitter cup of woe; 
My mind was free from trouble then 

That now so well I know. 

Sweet, blushing roses, now to me 
Your words, how changed the}^ seem 

Yet life is real, earnest, now, 
While then 'twas but a dream. 



TO A WREN 



Dear little brown-clad, chirping wren, 

How happy you must be; 
From sorrow and vexation, 

Your little heart is free. 

You visit us in springtime. 
And build your pretty nest 

Within some quiet, hidden spot, 
That pleases you the best. 

You are never cross or vaunting; 

But always mild and humble; 
You take the weather as it comes, 

And never fret or ojrumble. 



POEMS. 139 



TO A CANARY. 



My little bird, have you awoke 

To sing to us all day? 
How can you sing thro' winters storm. 

As tho" "twere balmy May? 



THE BIRD'vS vSERENADE. 



Early one Easter morning, 

Of a perfect cloudless day, 
While the frost still gleamed and sparkled 

Beneath the sun's bright ra}', 

Two beautiful brown thrushes 

Came to our cedar trees, 
And tliere such music they poured forth — 

"Twas surely meant to please. 

Then came four robin-red-breasts, 

And joined the serenade: 
Such bird-notes ne'er could be excelled 

In forest, olen, or glade. 



140 POEMS. 



THE FIRST ROSE OF SPRINGTIME. 



'Tis the first rose of spring-time 
Just budded to bloom: 

The flower's resurrection 
From winter's cold tomb. 

How sweet beams its smile thro' 
The clear, sparkling dew. 

Are heavens own roses 
As lovely as you? 



A PRAYER. 



Help me this night 
To speak aright — 

1 humbly pray Thee, do! 
May every word, 

By Thee be heard, 

Thou glorious and true! 



POEMS. Ul 



REvST. 



Ills body rests with millions more, 

"Neath earths dnrk soil, 
With eye -lids closed in peaceful rest — 

Hands free from toil. 

His spirit waits to welcome those, 

Who loved him best — 
Within that home, where tears ne'er fall, 

And all is rest. 



MUvSINGS. 



W^hen 1 am dead, 

Shall I no more behold 
The sunrise bright and beautful? 

And filtered through 
The leafy screen upon the wall, 

Its soft light. 
Mingled with the sliadows, 

Gently rise and fall? — 
When 1 am dead? 



14:2 POEMS. 



TWO VIvSIONS. 



1 saw the sou, low in the west, 
Darkened and streaked with red; 

It seemed enlarged tenfold its size, 
And all its light had fled. 

And while I looked upon this scene, 

So awful to behold, 
My heart was crushed, my spirit bowed 

With misery untold. 

An unseen hand had led me there, 
This blood-stained orb to view; 

Still while I gazed, 1 stood alone. 
Nor once my eyes withdrew. 

Then came the unknown hand again, 

And from the vision dread. 
Lead me to view another scene, 

While all my anguish fled. 

This scene was balm unto my soul; — 

A fair celestial grove. 
Whose brightness far out-shone the sun; 

'Twas lit by Jesus' love. 

With rapture, words cannot express, 
1 gazed upon the spot. 



POEMS. 14P> 



Which seemed ustii willi ungel life — 
1 can forget it not. 

Trees of siicli beauty, I ])elieH: 
Such form — such l_)right array, 

Such sylvan walks and sweet retreats 
Before my vision lay. 

"Tis disembodied spirits feel 

Such bliss — such joy supreme — 

Such pure and heavenly ecstacy 
As thrilled me in m}' dream. 
May, 1900. 



TO FAITH IN HEAVEN 



Dear Faith, the spring is here again: — 
Earth smiles to feel its soft embrace, 
And the sky kisses its bright face; 
While 1 feel naught but i)ain. 
Since thou art gone! 

One year ago, and thoii stood here 
Adoring Spring's first land-scape-touch: 
Joy thrilled our hearts, God knows how 
much 
While listing to the wild bird's cheer- 
My poet child! 



lU POEMS. 



Ah! now, how changed our once bright home! 
Sadl}', alone the floor 1 pace — 
Yearning for one sight of tby face; 
Bnt thou art in the tomb, 
My own sweet child! 

And, as 1 cast my eyes about — 
At every turn or glince they meet 
Things that thy touch hath made so sweet 
Both in doors an<i without. 
My precious child! 



The little wagon, given to thee 
When but a tiny tot 
Still stands within the selfsame spot 
Thou placed it — 'neath the tree, 
My darling one! 

The playhouse, built by thy dear hands, 
That now are still for aye — 
As it was then, it is today — 
Still by the garden fence it stands, 
And speaks of thee! 

Thy books lay idle on the shelf: 
In pitying tones they seem to say: — 
Where is our little friend today? 
Each calls for thy dear self — 
My earth-lost child! 



POEMS. 145 



The organ, lonely, waits for thee — 
Its keys to lightly sweep; 
For never since thou fell asleep 
Hast rose its melody, 

My gifted child! 

Thy pictures, cards, and valentines 
Look sadly in my face — 
As there, patheticl}' the}^ trace 
The many care-worn lines. 

Since thou wast here! 

The swing, in which thy lithe form swaj'ed 
Softly in summer air; — 
Dear Faith, it is still rocking there- 
in the tall maple's shade- - 
Waiting for thee! 

The upstair-corner, sacred still 
To thee- thy touch retains: 
Each article placed there remains 
As 'twere thine own sweet will, 
Beloved child! 

Thy toys and trinkets all are there; — 
Thy dolls, dressed last by thee! 
Sadly their eyes look up at me, 
As tho' they missed thy care, 
■ My tender child! 



146 POEMS. 



The little ringlet from thy head 
Clipped seven jea.YS ago, 
Speaks of thee, darling, soft and low, 
Since thou, alas, art dead! 
My heart's one hope! 

The garments, that thy form once clad. 
Look plaintively like thee; — 
In them so oft, thee still 1 see. 
When thou wast gay and glad, 
Dear, loving heart! 

Thy empty chair, beseeches me 
To call thee back to it; — 
Within its close embrace to sit! 
Yes; all things call for thee. 
My darling Faith! 

Thy pets come to me to receive 
Caresses — such as thou hast given! 
Can thy sweet eyes look down from heaven, 
And know how much we grieve? 
My angel child! 

The ring that pressed thy finger, dear. 
Waits to encircle it again — 
While in the d.irk g;ave tho'i hast lain 
Two months — it seems .■ year 
My only child! 



POEMS. 147 



And j'et, but j'esterday it seems, 
Since th}' dear lips my cheek did press, 
In many a loving, sweet caress; — 
Bat now, 'tis but in dreams, 
My hearts best love! 

All things do miss thee from thy place: 
They miss th}- voice so clear and sweet — 
They fain, again thy smile would greet — 
They miss thy happy face — 
M}^ dearest child! 

Each spot about thy place of birth, 
Thou St consecrated with thy life. 
Every soft breeze, with words is rife — 
Of thy true love a:id wort'". 
My guiding star! 

No mor^^ I"ll train thee to recite; 
Thy voice on earth is still; — 
Ah! well, I know it is Gods will; 
Tho" it be my hope's blight 
To lose thee now! 

0, could my spirit be with thine — 
My deepest prayer would be fulfilled; 
Then, tho' thy voice on earth were slilled, 
'Twould blend in heaven with mine — 
M}' spirit's guide! 



148 POEMS. 



THE vSWEET PBAS THAT BLOOM 
IN THE GARDEN. 



There are purples, from palest 

To darkest of shade; 
Bright scarlet and crimson, 

With carmine inlfiid. 
There are rich cream}^ tinted, 

And pure snow}' white; 
There are lovely deep blue 

Down to delicate light. 

There are pinks of all shadings 

From deepest of rose, 
To the softest of blush; — 

Then clusters and rows 
Of spotted and speckled, 

In endless array; — 
With streaked and striped. 

Bright, gaud}^, and gay. 

Way down in the depth of 

Each tiny heart- cup, 
Is a nectar; — the bee knows 

The wealth of its sup; 
For Jupitor's nectar 

Was not half so sweet. 
As this, that in flowers 

Makes fullness complete. 



POEMS. 149 



The fragrance thai rises 

Like incense of old 
To heaven — from platters 

Of pure burnished gold — 
Of all perfect odors, 

None sweeter can be 
Than the breath that exhales 

From the lovely sweet- pea. 

Swtet eml)lems of innocence, 

Loved b}^ one gone, 
Whose voice now is blending 

With seraphs' in song; 
The hands that these flowers 

So often lituh given. 
Are now weaving gai'lands 

For children in heaven. 

(July, 1900.) 



AT OUR DARLING'S GRAVE. 



Softly tread 'round the little bed 
Where the pale moon vigil keeps; 

Press the earth lightly; 'tis hallowed ground 
Where our sainted darling sleeps. 

Quietly speak of the life so meek, 
That was lived in a few short hours; 



150 POEMS. 



Tenderly place on the little mound, 
Garlands of fair, sweet flowers. 

Silently lay above her clay 

The rose-buds of her choice; 
Perhaps in heaven as when on earth. 

They'll make her soul rejoice. 

Hover o'er, we can do no more; 

Though languishing, feel we must 
Remove all barriers placed between, 

To see the sacred dust! 

Bursting heart, let the life-blood start; 

For it was not long ago, 
Since the heart of dust responsive beat — 

With rosy life aglow. 

Calmly weep; she is still asleep; 

Nor can hear the softest sigh, 
Down, low down in the darksome mould 

Where she must ever lie! 

Breathe a prayer, while lingering there; 

That it may upward roam 
And bring her seraph form to us 

Down from its spirit home. 

Softly tread, 'round the little bed 
Where the pale moon vigil keeps ; 

Press the earth lightly; 'tis hallow'd ground 
Where our sainted darling sleeps. 

(On visiting her grave September 9th, 1900. ) 



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